


Reject Squad

by Kicker



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Alcohol, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, F/M, M/M, POV Cait, POV Female Character, Sexual Content, Smoking, Spoilers, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-23 18:31:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 21,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6126102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kicker/pseuds/Kicker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cait is 'rescued' from the Combat Zone by a giant in a suit of armour and some prick in a leather jacket. Somewhat unsurprisingly, it's not a match made in heaven. She ends up on the road with a ghoul and a sniper, on their way to tell him exactly what they think of him.</p><p>That doesn't quite go to plan, either.</p><p>There's a lot of fighting. A *lot* of swearing. Most of the smut happens behind closed doors. But there's wittiness, pining, daring escapes, and constant flirtation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Combat Zone

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a film parody, but before I could even shitpost it had turned into about 5k words and a ten-chapter plan. ENJOY LOL.

The lights are almost pretty from this angle. All the smoke and jet fumes make them look like solid pillars, jutting down from the ceiling like supports holding up a broken road. Sparkly supports. Sparkly, multi-coloured supports. She looks at them for a moment, wide-eyed, distracted, watching a chunk of ash floating around in a beam.

The wire of the cage slams into her back, and brings her back, just a little bit too late. She pushes off with a growl, but there's a shoulder there in the way, just placed to hit her in the chest. She bounces off it, and tumbles to the floor. She rolls and tries to catch herself, but her arm gives way under her. Been sleeping so heavy from the booze that more often than not, it's totally dead when she wakes up. She can still feel it, always there, that sense of _not right_  deep in her shoulder. Makes it difficult to lift it over her head, hard to get any real force behind her fist.

She's got to, though. Her career rides on it. Probably her life, too. She slaps her palm on the floor, wills the complaining muscles to obey.

They do. _Thank fuck_.

Alright. She's up. Still with the bitter pain in her stomach, like there's a family of molerats gnawing on her insides, but that's fine. That's normal. So's the dry burning behind her eyes, making her vision shaky. The ringing in her ear's a bit unusual, not sure if that's from the hangover or from the punch this bastard just managed to land on her.

"I'm gonna kill you," says the bastard in question.

Blonde. Watery eyes. Scraggy beard. Big, red mark on his cheek, an old bruise maybe. Built like a brick shithouse but that definitely won't help him, not against her. Leather jacket done up tight with a zip, so no button-popping fun for the front row this time. Might have a knife in one of those long sleeves, though, best be careful.

She spots another mark on his hand. Rad burns. Fighting for Radaway, maybe, it's not cheap. That means he's not at full strength.

_Alright, Cait. You've got this._

She coughs, spits blood on the scuffed floor of the ring. Hopes there wasn't another tooth went with it. No pain when she wipes the back of her hand across her mouth, so maybe she's ok. One less thing to worry about.

"You?" she says, with a sniff. "Not fuckin' likely."

More likely than normal, but she balances herself. Feet steady on the ground. Fists ready in the air.

Then the chems finally kick in.

The shouts of the crowd fade away into a dark buzz. Her doubts condense into a tiny rainbow-scented bubble that hovers in front of her nose. Blonde bastard looks like he's staring at it too. So she jabs her finger into it. Watches it burst.

"Come the fuck on, then," she says, softly.

He moves toward her, slow motion, unbalanced, like a wall that's finally decided it can't be arsed with being upright any more. She could move to one side, two steps would do it. Just let him run his stupid face into the outside of the cage. Tommy'd probably smack her for it though. Not showy enough. They don't pay to see an idiot fall down, that's a different kind of show.

A single step away. Grab his collar as he drifts past. Twist the leather in her grip, pull him up sharp. Hold him up so the room can see him, can see the fist she slams into one of his kidneys.

Dull roar. Might be the crowd, might just be the blood rushing through her veins.

His hands are reaching back, scratching at hers. Rough skin, broken nails; blood bubbles up on her skin.

"Fuckin' stop that, you bastard," she says, slapping them away.

There's a change in pitch to the roar; is this shite wearing off already? Better get this done.

Spin him around, another fist to the ribs. Force his head down, knee to the face. But she forgets to turn him so the front row can see it. She curses, hopes they got a good view of the spray of blood, at least.

Sounds start to return, too soon, must be too soon. There's clapping. Shouting. Lots of shouting, sounds like it's about to kick off. Can't tell if that's a good or bad sign. Final fist to the face and the bastard's down. She checks her angles. Kicks him to get him facing the right way. Looks over to Tommy for the cue. Smash him or let him get up.

Tommy's facing the other way. Not paying a blind bit of attention. Some other noises, all making her head spin. He's shouting into the mic, but there's something else, crackling away while he's talking.

"Fuck's sake, Tommy" she says. Bastard between her feet coughs, rolls, reaches up her leg with shaking fingers.

"Please," says the bastard.

Red mist. Black mist. Everyday mist for a Cait.

"Don't fuckin' touch me," she says. Drops to her knees and slams a fist into his face. Then another.

Tommy hates when she does that. So she's not surprised to find herself being dragged up by the elbow. _You didn't wait for the cue, Cait. I don't pay you to make the decisions, Cait._  Except he's not saying any of that, none of the usual shite. He's just dragging her over to the back edge of the cage, and telling her to get down. Sitting in front of her, like he's shielding her with his own body. Plenty of it to do that with, sure, but not exactly part of Tommy's normal service.

That extra sound starts to make some sense. It's guns. Guns aren't exactly unusual in the Combat Zone. But laser fire is. Not many raiders that can afford a laser rifle.

Wire cage isn't much protection against either kind.

"Who the fuck is this guy?" says Tommy, running a hand through what's left of his hair.

This guy turns up in the cage a few minutes later, humming some kind of tune. Dark hair, dark eyes, big nose that looks like it's been broken a good few times. Wearing a leather jacket and a tatty pair of jeans. Backed up by some arsehole in a suit of power armour, as though that makes him special.

Tommy hands her over like she's a piece of meat. Like they always do. Fucking arsehole.

She leaves them talking and sits at a table, down in the pit. Pockets a tin of mentats and a jet inhaler that rattles when she shakes it, probably got a huff or two left in it. Sniffs at an open bottle of beer. Curses and pushes it away; full of spent cigarettes and who knows what else. Best case, spit and piss. Knowing what raiders are like, probably worse. Fucking animals.

Mr Leather Jacket sits himself down opposite her. He's got a couple of bottles of beer in his hand. He opens them up, drops the caps on the table like they're not even important to him. But he puts one of the bottles in front of her. Leans back in his chair, drinks.

She reaches out her hand. Takes the caps. He doesn't break eye contact, but doesn't stop her.

Rich wanker. The worst kind.

The suit's just standing at a fair distance. Laser rifle held at the ready, eyes constantly sweeping the room. Exression on his face like he's disgusted by the surroundings. Well done, arsehole. This is the Combat Zone. It is a fucking shitehole, you want a prize for noticing?

She drinks half the bottle in one. Taps it on the table. "What's he so tense for?" she asks, gesturing with her chin. "You already killed everyone."

The jacket smiles. "He's very dedicated," he says. "Always on duty."

Can't see much of him outside that suit. She wonders how much of him there is in there. Probably a shortarse, they're always the kind to dress big.

"How come you get to drink on the job, then?" she says. "You his boss?"

The jacket laughs. "Technically speaking, he outranks me. But my situation is somewhat unusual."

Definitely a rich wanker. Works the same in raider crews. Don't matter how green you are, if you've got the caps and a big enough bodyguard.

"I don't want to know," she says.

He taps his own bottle on the table, empty. "How do you fight, Cait?" he says.

"With me fists and me teeth," she says, baring them.

"No ballistics?" he says.

"The fuck does that mean?" she asks.

"Guns," he says. "Sorry."

Pretentious bastard.

"I used to have a shotgun," she says. "But I had to sell it to make rent on this place."

He looks surprised.

"Yeah," she says, "people pay caps to live in places they fucking hate. Are you new here or something?"

She shakes her head. Definitely needs something stronger to cope with this shite. She wanders away without a word, leans over the bar, pulls out the bottle of good whiskey, the stuff Tommy thinks she doesn't know about. Grabs a couple of glasses, but fumbles them and drops one. That ache in her shoulder is fucking with her fingers now. Marvellous. She kicks the shards away, tries again. Takes them back to the table. If the jacket noticed, he doesn't show it.

"How do you fight, then?" she asks, slopping too much whiskey into each glass.

"Interesting question."

She watches him as he answers, only half-listening. She's heard enough people brag about their fighting skills to last her a lifetime. She notes the important words. Rifles. Pistols. Fists. His eyes look a bit sad, even when the rest of his face is smiling. Maybe there is some thinking going on in there. Maybe he thinks he's a saviour. She's met a couple of those, too.

"So," he's saying, "Danse was on his last fusion core, and it was running low, like he could barely afford to move at all in case the low power warning went off, beep beep beep, that would have been bad. So I climbed up on some scaffolding, waited for the raider boss to come take a piss against the wall, and dropped caps on his head until he looked up. Then I flipped him the double bird and dropped a frag grenade right inside his combat armor."

He's on his feet, waving his arms, acting it out. She bites back a smile, and even the Suit's watching the show.

The jacket sits back down. Looks over at the suit, who frowns, and continues with his 'vigilance'.

"Listen," says the jacket. "This is a shitty situation for you, I get it. But I'm not going to take advantage. I can't promise you much happiness or safety, but I can promise you food, shelter, and the best shotgun you've ever seen."

He smiles at her. He's fairly easy on the eye, she thinks. And he tells a good story.

"Sure," she says. "Whatever."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: a trip to the beach for some gross objectification of certain Brotherhood Ideals _:waggles eyebrows:_


	2. Nordhagen Beach

Cait and Nate. Sounds like shite to her, but he loves the sound of it, always introduces them to settlers like that. Just before he agrees to fetch a cat from a tree or clear out some stupidly dangerous location for hardly any reward.

Apart from the bleeding heart shite, travelling together actually works out quite well. He's tactical, smart; scopes out the road ahead, takes out the worst enemies from a distance with a nice-looking rifle. Half the time she doesn't need to do anything. Just look at his arse as he shimmies up over a fallen wall or rock to look through his scope.

It's in the less predictable situations that she gets to have some fun. Unexpected feral nest. Gunner den that keeps silent til they're crossing beneath a road. She keeps a hit or two in her pockets, just to make sure she's ready. He notices, a couple of times. Frowns at her.

_Don't you fuckin' judge me_.

She makes sure he's looking the other way the next time.

One day, he checks the Pip-Boy. "Oh shit," he says. "Cait, we have an appointment."

"What for?" she asks.

"You'll see."

They start travelling south, toward that ugly metal thing above the airport. When they're nearly there, they head off to the left of it, though, down a sandy old road. At the end of it, there's a tiny farmhouse, surrounded by old boats and fishing nets or some shite. A scrawny, tired-looking family tending to a patch of gourds or some other dry-looking vegetable.

A tall figure approaches. Very tall. Broad, too.

Nate walks over to the Paladin, hand in the air. "Danse, my man."

The Paladin doesn't move. Nate sighs, grabs his hand, and claps his own against it. "Come on, we talked about this before, don't leave me hanging."

Weird. But the Paladin's not a small man dressing big, after all. Big man, dressing big. Fine head of hair, too, when it's not crushed down by a stupid hood.

"Hey Danse," says Nate, "I got you something."

Some item is being exchanged. The Paladin looks confused.

"You want me to put these on?" he says.

Nate nods.

"These will severely limit my visual acuity."

"Come on, Danse. Humour me."

The Paladin sighs, and puts on a pair of sunglasses. They match the pair Nate's wearing.

Nate turns around, claps his arm around the Paladin's shoulders, other hand on his hip. "Cait. Do we look awesome, or do we look awesome?"

"You look like a right pair of arseholes," she says.

"Come on, Cait. Brotherhood's finest, right here in front of you."

He's grinning like an idiot. Kind of infectious, that grin, but she's not going to give him the satisfaction.

"Ain't sayin' much, you know," she says.

The Paladin furrows his brow at her, behind the glasses, while Nate turns and starts to walk along the beach. She trails along behind them. "What's this about, anyway?" she says.

"Time-honoured military tradition," says Nate. "You'll see."

Quite a lot of people around, actually. She watches for a moment. "Looks like a bunch of Brotherhood arseholes chucking balls at each other." She stares glumly as one of them jumps in the air and smashes a ball at the feet of another one, spraying sand up in the air.

"Nice shot," says Nate. "Good one, Haylen."

The woman turns and grins.

They walk on. "A bunch of semi-clad Brotherhood arseholes," she continues. "Could be worse."

Nate stops. Rummages in his pack, and pulls out a handful of beers. Hands them out.

Could definitely be worse.

"Okay," she says. "I give up. What's the point?"

"Cameraderie," he says. "Healthy competition. Friendly rivalry."

She stares at him as she drinks. "Sounds like shite, if you ask me."

"Trust me, Cait," he says, with a grin. "I think you'll like it. You might even want to play."

"D'you get to punch anyone?" she asks.

"Uh, no," he says, "it's not a contact sport."

"Definitely shite, then," she says. "Count me out".

Two of them up ahead are deep in discussion, making tight little gestures with their hands as though they're planning out a two-on-two fight. Young ones, they are. Too big to be decent fighters but strong as hell. Broad shoulders, big arms. Made for lugging equipment, hefting miniguns. Now just shirtless. Hairy. One with a fairly impressive beard on him.

She lets out a low whistle. "Wouldn't mind bein' in the middle of that sandwich," she says.

Nate starts coughing violently, trying not to spit his beer out onto the ground.

"You are referring to the Elder, citizen," says the Paladin. "Show some respect."

"Jesus," she says, staring harder. "He can come show me some respect whenever he likes, if you know what I'm sayin'. Who's the other one?"

"Knight Rhys," says Nate, wiping his eyes, still coughing slightly.

"Oh," she says. "That wanker. I remember you tellin' me about him."

One of them's bending down to retrieve the ball, arse in the air. She tilts her head to one side, admiring the view. Maybe Nate was right. This isn't a complete waste of a day.

Whoever it is straightens up, reaches up in the air to punch the ball about some more.

Nate comes to stand beside her, arms folded. "Cait," he says. "You're drooling."

"Too right I am," she says. "Are you seein' this?"

Something appears in her field of vision. She brings her fists up in front of her face, automatically. But it's just a pair of sunglasses being put on her nose. Completely lopsided, and he manages to poke her in both ears when putting them on.

They match his.

"There you go," he says. "Now you can stare all you want, and nobody will ever know."

"I see," she says. "So you have been starin' at me arse all this time."

"Not just yours," he says, grinning, and pinches her cheek. She slaps his hands away, curses at him.

There's a call from the court. Time for battle, or combat. Or whatever they call it.

Nate pulls his shirt over his head, and okay. That's not too shabby at all. Not that she hasn't seen him before, glances stolen when he's getting into his bedroll, or when he's changing his shirt. Never quite so openly. Skin gleaming in the sun. Pretty obvious that he's holding in his stomach, though, making sure he looks his best. Good way to psych out your opponents.

Well. Cait knows a thing or two about that.

She wolf-whistles at him, through her fingers, loud and piercing. Heads turn, from the court, right over to the other side of the beach. Nate grins over his shoulder at her, stands proud with hands on his hips. Lithe. Agile. In a barfight, more likely to be the one who skids under the table to punch someone in the dick than these Brotherhood types, who'd look at the table like dumb fucking rocks before _Brotherhood smash_  or whatever.

The whistle had some effect. The brothers of chest hair are glaring over at them. The Paladin's not playing along, though. He's just standing there, arms hanging. Shirt still on, too.

She throws a bottlecap at him. "Come on Danse, show us some skin."

He ignores her, looking at Nate kind of helpless, actually. Brotherhood's finest, psyched out by a whistle. Pathetic.

She laughs, drops down on the sand. Settles back on her elbows to watch the show. Doesn't make any sense, but whatever. Bunch of men bouncing around in the sun, can't argue with that. They shout out numbers. Spectators start to gather.

Nate hurls himself to one side as the ball is punched down hard, right at his face. He rolls, and lies flat on his back in the sand, breathing heavily.

A smug little smile crosses the beard's face as he turns away toward his teammate.

Nate's being pulled to his feet by the Paladin. Hands gripping on forearms, a slight nod when he's got his balance.

Not a contact sport, eh?

Back upright, Nate punches the stupid ball over the net again. Something goes well, because he's cheering, and the beard is cursing.

"Forget the ball," she says, loudly. "Just get over there and fuckin' punch him."

The beard's head snaps round toward her. She waves, and blows him a kiss.

He returns to the game.

"Yeah, you better look away, ya bastard," she mutters. She gets up, brushes the sand off her. "Bunch of macho bullshit this is," she says, to nobody in particular. "I've had enough."

There's another building, just down by the shore. Made of metal sheeting, propped up on concrete blocks. On the one hand, it smells like salt and boredom. On the other, it's cool, and when she pushes the glasses up onto the top of her head, she sees a crate of beers on the side.

"Sure they won't miss one," she says.

She sits in an old armchair, ignoring the cracking sounds it makes as she settles in. Leans her head against the back of the seat, tips the beer into her mouth. Probably better than a night in the Combat Zone. Definitely better than a day.

She looks around as she drinks the beer. There's gear piled up all over the place. Flight suits, helmets, and a coat. She drops the empty bottle, and goes to have a closer look. Brown leather, good quality, decent condition. Soft lining, warm under her fingers. She lifts it up, holds it to the light.

"Put that down," says a voice from behind her.

She looks over her shoulder. The bearded one, still shirtless, dusted with sand. Red stripe over his shoulders where he's caught the sun.

He crosses the floor, grabs it out of her hands. "I said put it down."

Closer up, the effect's no less impressive. Now she can see the scar down his cheek, the hazy blue of his eyes. Smell the sweat and smoke on him. Not sure if this is the Elder or the arsehole Knight. Looks younger than her, maybe.

Fit as fuck, anyway.

"I do like a bit of leather," she says, with a wink.

"Get out of here," he says. "This is Brotherhood property."

Elder or Knight, still an arsehole. She reaches past him to pick up another beer. Looks him in the eye as she cracks it open with her teeth, and spits the cap into her hand. Drops the sunglasses back onto her nose.

"Well, then," she says. "Ad Victoriam, I s'pose."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: The group deal with the immediate consequences of Blind Betrayal. Cait is also intolerably rude to Curie, brace yourselves.


	3. Jamaica Plain

It was going well. It was going really well. Then Nate got some kind of summons back to the fancy balloon. Brotherhood business, no Caits required. So he's left her in some trading post. Dumped like a sack of salvage.

So what's new?

She settles on the concrete, back against a wall. From this angle, she gets a nice bit of warmth from the sun, and can see the mutants as they stomp in from that factory off to the west. Actual guards are normally too busy chatting shite to raise the alarm early enough. Besides, if she goes into the settlement, she'll have to talk to Curie. And Curie's a fucking synth who won't stop asking questions about _what it is to be an 'uman_.

Cait's eyes narrow, just at the thought.

She hears a bit of shouting, which is normal, caravan guys usually announce themselves with a bit of cheerful cursing, but then Nate and the Paladin stagger in through the gate. Slam it shut behind them. Both look completely exhausted.

"Listen," says Nate. "I've got your back, no matter what."

His eyes are burning, like it's half a promise, half a threat. If the Paladin were in a jacket with a collar, Nate'd be holding him by both lapels, maybe giving him a bit of a shake. As it is, the Paladin's just in his flight suit, and that's weird enough to start with. Never mind the downcast eyes and dangling arms. He looks like a fighter who's taken one too many punches to the head.

Nate helps or drags him over to the shack he was staying in before. Slams the door behind them.

A little time passes. The sun on her cheeks starts to get too much. She's just thinking about moving when Nate appears back outside, rubbing a hand over his face. He catches her eye, and comes straight over. Drops himself down against the wall next to her, closes his eyes. Utterly shattered. Defeated, even.

"This is bad, Cait."

Mission's gone to shite, then. He likes to debrief after missions, but never on ones she's not been on. This is really weird.

"I gave the Brotherhood a holotape," he's saying. "On it, there was a list of synths. Danse matches one of the descriptions."

"What do you mean?" she asks. "Are you saying he's a fuckin' synth?"

Nate buries his face in his hands. A muffled sound that's probably a yes.

She stares at him, open-mouthed. "And you brought him here?"

A sharp look. A pause, before he speaks. "Of course I did."

"Are you fuckin' insane?" she says. "You know what synths do. Fuckin' hell, Nate."

"I know what some synths do, Cait," he says. "Not all of them."

"Oh, okay," she says. "Well, I'm glad that you alone in the Commonwealth know which synths are going to go bad before they do. Maybe one day you'll share that knowledge with everyone else. Just think, we wouldn't have to live in blind fear the whole damn time."

Nate's just staring at his hands now. "He wouldn't do that. I know he wouldn't."

"Fuck me," she says. "This is gettin' stupid. First the little French goody-two-shoes, now him too? Is this synth central you've dumped me in? Do you know something about me I don't?"

"It's not like that," he says. His voice is dulled, sad.

Maybe she should stop, she's upset him enough already. But she doesn't. She can't. "You've told me all about the Brotherhood. All about their ideals. How they're going to shut the Institute down, you really believe they can do it. And you're still gonna buddy up with every fuckin' synth you meet?"

"Cait!" he says.

"I'm just saying," she says, ignoring the hurt expression on his face. "Make up your damn mind."

"I don't have to listen to this," he says.

"You came to me," she says, bitterly. "Don't give me shite because you don't like what I'm saying."

He gets to his feet. "I'm sorry," he says. "I picked the wrong fucking person to talk to."

She hits the back of her head against the wall. "Yeah," she says. "You did."

After he pads away, she stays there for a while. Her cheeks are hot, and it's not just from the sun. Her shoulder's killing her too, the fingers on that hand shivering as she looks at them. Some use she'll be if any mutants do come through.

"Fuck this," she mutters.

She walks into the settlement, brushing the dust off her legs. Climbs the stairs to the piece of shit bar built up the side of a shabby old building. As splintered and unsteady as anything in the Combat Zone. She takes out a handful of caps, shows them to the barman.

"Don't care what it is," she says, "but it has to be strong, and enough of it to last til sundown."

She takes the bottle. Barman doesn't ask her how many cups she needs, just slams a single chipped mug in front of her with a scowl. Already knows her, already hates her. She flashes him a grin in reply. She sits down at a table, and starts to knock back the drink. Tries not to think.

And this must be a test. Some heaven-sent test of her patience. Because the French synth is appearing next to her, _oh may I join you madame_ , and sitting herself down on the dusty old bench.

"Can't exactly stop you," says Cait.

Curie smiles, thanks her prettily. Sips her non-alcoholic beverage like the adorable little synth she is.

Cait grips her mug. Turns to the synth. "Why are you so nice?"

"I do not know what you mean, madame?" comes the answer.

"That," says Cait, raising her voice. "That's exactly what I mean. I hate you, and you just don't get it."

She really doesn't get it. It's not fuckin' natural.

Barman comes over. Got that look in his eyes that says he doesn't understand the situation at all, but he's going to wade in anyway. In to the defence of the cute little girl. Of course.

"Don't cause any trouble," he says.

Look like a victim, be treated like one.

"I'll cause as much trouble as I like," says Cait.

"Yeah," he says. "You can. Outside. So chill the fuck out when you're in here, okay?"

Curie backs down, moving away to another seat with a confused expression on her face. Leaves Cait to her drink. Leaves Cait to her thinking. That bloody Paladin. The one thing they could agree on was that synths weren't to be trusted. Weren't to be tolerated. Now this.

"I'm closing up," says the barman, eventually. "Get out."

"Fuck you, and all," she mutters, a few minutes later, wrapping her arms around herself against the night air.

Alright. Sure it's dark, but it's not time to stop yet. There's a couple of guys at the campfire, sat close together. Maybe they'll have some booze. Then she shakes her head, and tries to focus a little better. Because that looks like the Paladin. And that looks a lot like Nate. Nate's got his hand on the fuckin' synth's shoulder.

The Paladin's hands are clasped tight, and he's staring down into the fire. But then, eyebrows rising, he looks sideways at Nate, who's saying something, very intently.

The fuck is this about.

Nate reaches out a hand to the Paladin's face. His fingers are stroking against the Paladin's neck. He pulls him into a kiss, and he doesn't resist. At all.

Oh. That.

She leans back against the door, rough surface scratching into her shoulders.

Their foreheads are resting against each other. They're talking, but it's far too far away to hear. But now the Paladin's getting into it. His hand's on Nate's cheek, and he's the one going in for the kiss. He's the one grabbing Nate's belt, pulling him closer.

And apparently Nate knows exactly how to get into a flight suit at short notice.

Nice scene. Cute. But she's standing in the dark with no way back, and no way past 'em without being seen. Damned if she'll stand there watching them all night, so she decides to get it over with quick. She reaches back and grabs the door of the bar, opens it again just to slam it shut with a bang. Walks down the steps like she's only just left.

At the sound, Nate jumps to his feet. He looks right at her, eyes wide.

"Don't mind me," she says, holding up her hand, walking past the campfire. She tries to remember where she threw her stuff. Finds the bedroll crumpled next to a workbench, or a bedroll that looks similar enough. Offers up a silent prayer of thanks when she finds her pack, and the bottle of whiskey hidden in it.

Nate and the Paladin, she thinks. So fucking obvious, now she thinks about it. Right from the Combat Zone. All the looks, and glances, all the little stories Nate was telling even when the Paladin wasn't around. But a fucking synth, and dangerous as hell. She realises she's worried for Nate. Not a feeling she gets, that often. And there's a pang of something else there too. Feels a bit like jealousy.

No. None of that. She takes a long gulp of the whiskey to damp it down. No good'll come of that. Never does.

When she wakes up, pain's burning in her stomach, her arm as numb and stupid as it ever is. The hammering she can hear isn't just in her skull, though. Fucking Nate, bashing away at some shite on the workbench right next to her head.

She pushes herself upright. Presses a palm on her forehead.

"This some kind of punishment?" she asks.

"I tried to wake you up," he says. "But you tried to punch me, so I thought I'd try a more passive-aggressive method."

So, he's still pissed at her. Fine. But at least he's still talking. She breathes through the nausea. Slow and steady. Wills her stomach to work with her.

"Talk to me, Cait," he says. "I know you saw."

"It's none of my business," she says, holding her hands up.

"I need to know what you think," he says.

"I think," she says, "that he's a fuckin' synth, and he'll probably kill us all."

He looks like she's just punched him in the face.

"You fuckin' asked," she says. "You asked what I thought. That's what I think. He's a synth. It's not real, Nate."

"It is fucking real," he says. "He was a synth when I... he was a synth when I met him. It doesn't change anything. Nothing has changed."

"I'm not sure what you want from me," she says. "You want my blessing? Go for your fuckin' life. You see something you want, just take it, life's too short to fuck around. But don't expect everyone else to throw flowers at you."

He drops down onto the ground beside her.

"Oh, Cait," he says, resting his palm over his eyes. "What am I going to do?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Cait takes her first (and probably last) vertibird flights.


	4. The Prydwen

~~~~He floats around like that for a few days. The place is like a minefield; she's hopping around to avoid the annoying Frenchie synth, avoid the puppy-eyed macho synth, and avoid the prick in the jacket who brought them all together. Then she overhears part of a conversation with the... Paladin. Or whatever he's supposed to be called now. _Go on up there_ , he says to Nate. _Don't throw away your career, just for... me_.

So Nate has to go back up to the balloon. And he's looking around the Plain, trying to work out who to take. 

Who's the only actual human here?

Yeah. Lucky Cait.

Sure enough, barely even an hour later, Nate's fixing her with those dark eyes.

"Please," he says. "Come with me. I'd really appreciate it."

He had sad eyes before, but now he looks about ready to curl up in the gutter and wait for death.

"Sure," she says. "Whatever."

Vertibirds are not her thing, she decides. Neither's the balloon. She tries to settle her feet on the metal deck, get her balance, but it's nothing like as comforting as the ground. Wind's whipping past like it wants to pick her up and chuck her overboard. The whole thing seems designed to put her on edge.

Inside's not much better, either. They're in a dark little room with filthy windows. A ceremony of some kind, if some guy in a coat and Nate hissing at each other while everyone else looks uncomfortable counts as one. Every table in the room is covered in booze and cigs, but when she sidles over to one she gets a sharp look from one of the uniformed arseholes. From the new angle, though, she recognises the coat. And the beard in it.

So _that_ one was the Elder, she thinks. Interesting.

Everyone files out past her. Must be over. There's a final stilted exchange of words, then Nate leads her off, though stuffy metal hallways, into a room filled with tools and power armour. He's talking to some woman in a skeletal suit of her own. Scruffy hair, wicked eyes. Looks like she could be persuaded into some mischief. But they're talking about mechanical shite, have totally forgotten about her.

"This is tedious as fuck," says Cait.

Nobody notices, so she wanders back the way they came. Finds a counter with food behind it. Closest to a bar that these tight-arses probably have.

"Any booze?" she asks.

"Yeah," says the kid behind the counter, with a sneer. "For officers only."

Fuck you, and all, she thinks.

Nothing else to do, she carries on wandering through the ship. Strange mixture of blue and red light, not so different to the Combat Zone. Just as much needless aggro from every arsehole in it. She looks into a room, filled with boxes and files, a cat rolling lazily on the desk. A guy in glasses frowns at her, as though her mere existence is bothering him.

"Can I help you?" he says.

"Doubt it," she says, turning away. "Smug prick," she mutters, under her breath.

She's practically walked herself off the ship, because here's the ladder up to the... whatever deck. Other bit of the ship with other fucking arseholes on it, who even cares.

But beyond the ladder, there's a door that wasn't open before. The room behind it isn't easy to make out with the steps in the way, but there's someone in there, moving around. Dark outfit. Beard. Alone.

She pads down what's left of the corridor. Circles the ladder, trailing her fingers on the railing. Steps up to the door. The room's a mess, almost as bad as her place back at the Combat Zone. Ashtrays, cigarette packets. A dozen half-empty bottles, strewn over every surface. He's pouring something from one of them into an enamel cup.

She leans against the doorframe, folding her arms.

He hasn't or is pretending not to've seen her.

"Lotta booze for one man," she says.

He looks up. A long moment passes, then he fetches another cup, places it on the table and fills it. Pushes it across the surface toward her.

As she enters the room, she kicks the door shut behind her, and picks up the cup.

"You're the one from the beach," he says.

"Maybe," she says.

"You're with the... Paladin," he says. "Yes?"

"Nate?" she says, with a casual sniff of the drink. Whiskey. Good. "Yeah. I guess."

"What are you, to him?" he asks.

"A pair of fists and a gun," she says.

"Nothing more than that?" he asks.

She shrugs. "Nothing more to me." She slams back the whiskey and taps the cup on the table. Hit of something stronger wouldn't go amiss right now, but that's probably not an option, not up here.

He pours more, for the both of them. "I find that hard to believe," he says.

She snorts with laughter. "You tryin' to flatter me?"

He doesn't say anything. Just gives her a sideways look.

"That shite don't work on me," she says, "I'm just a fighter. Believe me. But looks like you know somethin' about that, too." Her fingers are shaking again, so she reaches for the scar on his cheek with her thumb. "How'd you get it?"

He flinches. "Deathclaw," he says, a hint of irritation in his voice, picking up his whiskey.

"Bunch of fuckin' arseholes they are," she says. "Not invincible, though."

Another sideways glance, even as her thumb's straying around his ear. He doesn't flinch from that.

She pulls back her hand. Drinks her whiskey, drops the cup on the table. Then grabs a fistful of flightsuit and backs him against the wall.

"Time's wastin'," she says. "Let's just do this."

Seems that even he's not sure how this is going to turn out. He grabs her wrist, pushes out from the wall almost like he's been in a cagefight before. He unbalances her enough for the reflexes to kick in. Her hands come up, feet spreading to find her balance. Her fist clenches, automatically, preparing for the kidney-punch. He catches it, without even looking.

Fit as fuck, _and_ fast. Much faster than he looked. She grins. Hooks a finger through one of the buckles at his neck. Pulls his face to hers.

"Come on, then," she says. "Impress me."

After a little while, there are some noises from outside. Noises that might be a certain person shouting 'Cait, where the fuck are you'.

Busy right now, love, she thinks, as a hand strokes down her stomach. Call again later.

When she's pulled her clothes back on and opened the door, Nate's stood by the ladder. Arms folded, facing away. Maybe deliberately, maybe not.

"See you around, Maxie," she says over her shoulder, pulling the door shut behind her with a gentle click.

Nate half-turns. Doesn't look at her. "We're leaving," he says. "Right now."

She uncorks the bottle of whiskey she's nabbed from the quarters. Shrugs. "Okay."

They try to take the bottle away as she gets in the vertibird with him. She unleashes a choice set of curses at them and stuffs it in her pack.

He doesn't react. He doesn't talk. He doesn't say a thing, not in the vertibird, not in the airport, not for a while after, either. He strides along the road ahead of her. Before, when they saw an enemy, there'd be some conversation, or at least some sign to tell her what he was going to do. Now he just takes them out with angry shots to the head. Stamps on a feral's skull, even though it's already dead.

After a few miles of this, she grabs his elbow. Somewhere in the middle of nowhere. Just a road, with some dead trees, a slight hint of setting sun chilling the air.

"Alright," she says. "I get it. You're pissed. What the fuck is this about?"

"You don't understand," he says, shaking off her hand, trying to carry on.

"No," she says, grabbing him again. "I don't. That's obvious. Crystal fuckin' clear, in fact. Just a couple days ago, you were suckin' Danse's dick and that was ok. Now, I get some Brotherhood dick of me own, but that's wrong. I'm at a fuckin' loss so how about you go first with the explanations?"

He doesn't even turn around. Lets her stare at his back while he talks. "It's not about that, Cait. You can do whatever you want. Whoever you want. It's not even that it's him. It's the whole fucking Brotherhood."

"The fuckin' Brotherhood or fuckin' the Brotherhood?" she asks. "Still not exactly clear to me."

"The. Fucking. Brotherhood," says Nate, enunciating carefully. "They turned on Danse, in a fucking heartbeat. One moment, best Paladin ever. Brotherhood's finest. Next, his life is over, with no evidence to suggest that it's justified. One fucking line on a holotape. A holotape that I gave them."

"Oh," she says, folding her arms. "That's why you took the promotion, right? Paladin Nate? S'got a nice ring to it."

"It's complicated," he says, angrily. "There's a bigger picture, for fuck's sake."

"Oh, a picture?" she says. "That's nice, who's the fuckin' artist?"

Now he turns. And the look he gives her is somewhere between enraged and confused.

"This ain't a picture," she says, gesturing to the bleak scene around them. "It's real life. We're all trying to survive in this shitehole. I'm a real person. I'm not just here to make the place look pretty."

"Cait," he says.

"No," she says. "I get it. You're the artist. I'm supposed to turn up and hit things with me fists when you need it. Other than that, I need to sit down and shut the fuck up."

"Cait," he says, his tone a little softer. But it's too late.

"Whatever," she says. "I can't read, can hardly count. If you think I'm too stupid to understand your plan, well, that might be true. You can keep me in the dark about whatever you like. But don't expect the light to shine out from me arse, regardless. I'm gonna make me own way. You can deal with that, or you can fuck off."

He gives her the kind of look that says he's starting to prefer the second option.

"Keep fucking moving," she says, "I don't even care any more."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Cait meets a certain pair of reprobates :toot toot:


	5. Hangman's Alley

She said she didn't care. And she didn't. Not until they started walking through the city again. Not until the streets felt like the ones around the Combat Zone.

But he wouldn't be that much of an arsehole.

Would he?

They come to a tiny alleyway that stinks of brahmin shite and smoke. A gate, coated in peeling paint, topped with razorwire. This isn't the Combat Zone. This might be worse.

"I just need some time," he says, pushing her through the gate, already backing away.

"You're not leavin' me here!" she says, grabbing at his elbow.

It's not there any more. Neither is he.

"You fuckin' arsehole," she mutters.

She turns and looks at the place. It's a slum, growing up the sides of the alleyway like mould up the walls of the Combat Zone. All scrap metal, splintering wood, held together with rope and rusted nails. There's sparking wires strung between every floor and wall, powering a bunch of bulbs that are doing very little to light the place. The whole place is bound to fall down or catch fire within a couple of months.

"Fuckin' hell," she says. "This is a real shitehole."

Ahead, there's a small shack that has a couple of guys in it and several bottles on the table. Must be a bar, or something. It's a start.

She steps into the doorway.

"Oh, woah," says one of them. "You can't come in here. Read the sign."

"What fuckin' sign?" she says.

This one's in a trenchcoat, one sleeve missing, green jumper under it. Bullets stuck all over him. He's pointing above her head, so she looks up. Bit of wood with some paint on it. The sign, she guesses. Whatever.

The other one laughs. Red coat, tricorn hat. As he looks up at her, first thing she sees is a pair of black eyes. Very black eyes. Then some fucked-up skin. Ghoul, then.

Great.

"The Rejects' Clubhouse," says this ghoul, with a flourish of his hand, "has a very exclusive guestlist. But I saw what just happened at the gate. So, you're welcome here, sister. Come on. Pull up a chair."

He's pouring drink into a cup, and pushing it toward her. "John Hancock," he says. "Champion of the people. Sometime Mayor of Goodneighbor."

"Alright," she says, taking the cup.

"And this," he continues, "is Robert Joseph MacCready, sniper extraordinaire. Sometimes, and right now is a great example, also drunk extraordinaire."

"I am not drunk," says this other one. He tries to rest his elbow on the back of his chair. He misses. "Totally not."

"Keep tellin' yourself that, kid." The ghoul raises his chin at her. "So who are you?"

"Cait," she says.

"That it?" says the Mayor.

She sniffs. "Dunno, really. Fought at the Combat Zone a few times, if that counts."

"Oh," says the Mayor, with a slow and knowing nod. "Oh, that Cait. Okay. C'mon, sit down. You're makin' me nervous."

She drops her pack on the floor, and herself onto a carpet-covered stool. Leans on the table, brings the drink to her nose. Probably not poisoned. As if he guesses what she's worried about, the Mayor pours a fresh cup for himself and knocks it back.

Alright.

"Rejects' Clubhouse?" she asks. "What's that about?"

"He dumps us here to get us out of his hair," says the sniper. "We're the troublemakers, apparently."

"Troublemakers?" she says. "What'd you do?"

The sniper pulls off his hat, rubs fingers through his filthy hair. "I didn't do anything," he says, petulantly. "I just objected to having to carry his junk all the time."

The Mayor grins. "Why object to that? Oh, you mean the heavy stuff. Not the _junk_ , junk."

"Fuckin' typewriters," she says, into her drink.

The sniper grins at her. "Yeah. But it was the hot plates that really pi... annoyed me."

"Okay, Mayor... Hancock?" she says. "How'd you piss him off?"

He looks at her with an unreadable expression, and not just for the lack of facial features. "It's a long story," he says, "involving a couple hits of psychojet and a sack of mutfruit. You don't want to know."

She frowns, confused.

"So, uh, Cait? Was it?" says the sniper, hurriedly. "What did you do?"

"You know the Brotherhood, right?" she asks.

"Yeah," he says.

"I shagged the Elder," she says.

The sniper spits out his beer. "What?!"

The Mayor turns to her, eyes wide. "Oh my god," he says, slowly. "How'd you pull that off?"

"Well," she says, "I put me hand in his pants..."

"Oh no," says the sniper. "I really don't want to know."

"Put your hands over your ears, kid," says the Mayor, "because I do. Tell me more. What's he like?"

She rolls the base of the cup on the table, leaving a trail of damp spirals on its surface.

"Hair-puller," she says.

"Thought as much," says the Mayor, nodding. "Give a man a bit of authority, it goes to his head."

"Not for long, mind" she says, waiting for the curious looks before continuing. "Told him I'd rip his dick off if he carried on. Settled down after that."

Both of them are staring at her in horror or wonder. She doesn't much care which. She taps her empty cup with the back of a fingernail. Both of them leap to attention. The Mayor even goes off to fetch some food for them all.

Maybe this place ain't so bad.

Now the sniper's telling the story of how Nate had picked them both up in Goodneighbor. He's shovelling the food in his mouth like a dog that's been starved for weeks. Talks right through every mouthful, complaining about how shite it is, telling her all about his son back home, wherever that is.

The Mayor fishes individual pieces of whatever it is out of the bowl, inspecting every morsel as though it's about to kill him. The rest of the time he's fixing either one of them with those black eyes and asking the sniper questions.

Kid can talk, that's for sure.

Then there's a burst of gunfire.

"Raiders!" shouts a settler, scooping up a small child and hurrying them inside one of the shacks.

"You're kiddin' me," she says, turning to look out of the door of the shack. Orange flashes glowing up from behind the gate, as a mechanical turret spits bullets.

"Ah shit," says the Mayor. There's a groan as the table is shoved across the floor.

When she turns around, the sniper is holding a huge and very expensive-looking rifle in his hands. "C'mon," he says. "You've got a weapon, right?"

She grabs her shotgun from her pack, checks her pockets for packets of shells. When she gets outside, the sniper has slung his rifle over his back, and is standing looking up an awning that hangs off the building, above the gate.

"Come on," he's saying, "give me a leg up."

She clasps her fingers together, and kneels to give him a boost.

He looks at her, eyes wide. "Oh shi... uh, I thought you were Hancock," he says.

"Never mind that," she says, "fuckin' get up there."

He mumbles an apology, places his foot in her hand. She pushes up, he scrambles up, and disappears. Before long, shots ring out. Peering around the frame of the gate, she sees at least two raider skulls explode into blood and brains. Nice.

She steps out. "Come on then, you arseholes," she shouts.

First raider. Shell explodes in his face.

Second raider. Shell shatters her shoulder, and rips her chest open in a shower of blood.

Cait slams back behind the gate to reload. Nods at the Mayor, on the other side of it. _Your turn_.

Third raider barrels through the gate, only to be tripped on an extended foot. She crashes to the floor, and receives a knife to the kidneys for her efforts.

Fourth raider appears, barely even gets in before the Mayor's darted up and spiked into his chin with the same knife.

Crack, goes the sniper's rifle. And again. Then silence.

The raider that made it furthest in, took the kidneyshot, is coughing and complaining, spitting blood on the ground. Cait grabs her by the boot, drags her out the door, deposits her in the alley.

"And fuckin' stay out," she says. She hops over the pool of blood to get back in the settlement.

"Uh, a little help?" comes a voice from above.

The Mayor is busy going through the pockets of the closest raiders. So she stands under the awning. Looks up at the sniper's face, which is peering over the edge.

"What's the matter, MacCready?" she says. "Afraid of heights?"

"Well," he says. "Not the heights, exactly."

"Drop," she says. "I'll catch you."

He scrambles over the edge, hangs from his fingers, hesitates. Then drops down. She breaks his fall, and he staggers into her a bit. He has been drinking, so it's hardly surprising.

"Good shootin'" she says, steadying him.

"I aim to please," he says, touching his fingers to his cap. Then his eyes open wide, and he turns away, coughing.

She watches him for a moment. Fights affect people in all sorts of ways. He's probably fine. Not falling apart, anyway.

"That happen often?" she asks.

"Every few days or so," says the Mayor, cleaning his blade. "Worse when there's been a caravan come through. Brahmin are Commonwealth code for 'hey, we have interesting stuff, please do come attack us', after all."

"Every few days!" she says. "Why the hell are you still here?"

"He told us to stay here," says the sniper, red-faced but apparently recovered.

She shakes her head. "Who?"

"Nate," he continues. "Come on, you know him. Dark hair, big nose, constant air of disapproval?"

"Does sound like someone I know," she says.

He frowns, a little. "Though he never actually said 'stay here'. He just dumped me, and left. Hancock, what about you?"

The Mayor smiles, peacefully. "He said, and I quote: 'never, ever, do that again. Ever. I mean it. Even if I'm not around.' Then he left."

Cait folds her arms. "So let me get this straight. He's dumped us in some shitehole in the most dangerous corner of the city and just fucked off."

They nod.

"But, we're not actually under any obligation to stay," she says.

They nod.

She shrugs. "Why don't we just leave, then? Got to be better places out there."

"Ain't that the truth," says the Mayor.

The sniper's nodding along, but with a bit of a frown. "What if he does turn up, though? He might need us."

Cait snorts. "Then he can come find us. Or, you can stay here, if you like. Then if he does turn up, you can tell him that me and the Mayor here are in this Goodneighbor place, or whatever it's called."

The Mayor's eyes are wide. "You want to visit my domain, sister? I'm touched."

"Hey, that's not fair," says the sniper.

"Alright," says Cait. "How about this. Let's go find him. The three of us. Tell him, face to face, we quit. We're not gonna put up with this shite. The arsehole can't be that hard to find, right?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: the squad go looking for clues, starting in the Great Green Jewel of the Commonwealth.


	6. Publick Occurrences

She wakes up with a thumping headache and a mouth that tastes about as strongly of whiskey as any she's ever drunk. The sniper's curled up under the table, shivering.

A can of water appears in front of her face. There's a flash of red sleeve above it. She makes out the shape of the Mayor dropping another can by the sniper's head.

"I'm dying," says the sniper, opening a pair of eyes so bloodshot that she almost winces in sympathy.

The Mayor kneels down beside him, ruffles his hair. "Nah," he says. "You're gonna wish you were, though. Enjoy this moment of clarity while it lasts."

She sits up, shakes her head.

"You okay?" asks the Mayor.

"Never better," she says, and it's closer to the truth than he probably realises. She resists the urge to rub life back into her shoulder. He doesn't need to know about that.

"C'mon," he says. "I got a plan."

She follows him out of the shack. There's a couple of settlers giving them dirty looks and scrubbing away the blood from the night before. _Whatever, guys, just saved your lives, no need to thank us or anything._

"Okay," says the Mayor. "If we're gonna find Nate, we need to go where he goes. Now I happen to know he has a thing for Diamond City, told me he was a big fan of baseball back in the day. And there's a couple of people there who will definitely know where he is."

"Who?" she asks.

"Piper Wright. Journalist. Upholder of truth, or vicious rumourmonger, depending on who you're talkin' to. If not her, then Nicky Valentine. Best detective in the Commonwealth. Best synth, too."

She tries not to flinch at the word. Doesn't do very well.

"Hey," says the Mayor. "Valentine's one of the good ones. Like me, but on the robot side of things. You feel me?"

"Alright," she says. "We'll go talk to 'em. Let's get goin'."

The Mayor just laughs. "Yeah," he says, "we may have to give Mac a little while."

By the time they arrive at Diamond City, the sun's almost down. Plays in their favour, mind. The Mayor only tells her about the no-ghoul rule as he's swapping his red coat for a greaser jacket, and digging out a pair of goggles from his pack. He covers his head with a knitted hat and waves a hand at the sniper, who hands over his scarf with a huff.

"This happen often?" she asks.

The two of them just smirk at each other.

At the gate of the City, a security officer looks between the three of them. He fixes her with a particularly long stare. Cait sees their reflection in his sunglasses. Ragtag group of fucked up losers, we are, she thinks. What the hell are we doing here.

Then a finger's being pointed right at the Mayor. "What's up with him?"

"Laser rifle to the face," says the sniper, with a sad shake of his head. "He's very sensitive to sunlight still."

"Who has a laser rifle around here?" asks the security officer, hands poised on his gun.

"Gunners," says the sniper. "You know what they're like. They'll grab anything shiny. Probably don't know how to recharge it though, am I right?"

Doesn't sound convincing to her, but the officer lets them in with a nod of the head. "Go on in," he says. "Don't cause any trouble or I'll kick your asses. Personally."

"That was lucky," says the sniper, too loudly, not even out of earshot. "Okay. This way. Publick Occurrences, there it is." He wrinkles his nose. "Is that even spelled right?"

Outside it, there's a woman in a red coat, a black cap over dark hair, kneeling in front of a box of papers. Cait looks to the sniper for support, but he's too busy squinting at the sign to help.

"Hey," says Cait. "Are you Piper?"

The woman stands up and turns around. Sharp green eyes and a sprinkling of freckles over her nose. Cute. Very cute.

"Who's asking?" comes the reply.

"Hey Piper," says the Mayor, his voice muffled by the scarf. He pulls the goggles up to wink at her.

The journalist's eyes open wide. "Ha... oh shit. This way. Now."

Inside the building, the Mayor drops himself onto a chair and unwraps his face. "Thanks, Piper, I'm really starting to overheat in this get-up."

"What are you doing here, Hancock," says the journalist, hands on hips.

"First of all, wasn't my idea," he says, with a grin. "Second of all, we're looking for, ah, our mutual acquaintance."  
  
"Huh," says the journalist. "You lost him?"

"Pissed him off, more like," says the Mayor.

"Yeah, well," says the journalist. "Haven't we all." She takes a deep breath. Looks between the three of them, eyes fast and appraising.

The sniper settles himself onto a couch with a groan and a sag of the shoulders that says he's still suffering from the booze. Cait sits beside him, perched uneasily on the edge of the seat.

"Okay," says the journalist. "I know what you did, Hancock, I still have nightmares about it and I wasn't even there."

The Mayor grins, touches his fingers to his forehead.

"And you're MacCready, right?" she says to the sniper. "I've heard all about you. How's your kid?"

The sniper nods excitedly, and looks like he's about to start talking again. But she doesn't wait for a reply, turning to Cait instead. "You though," she says, "I don't know anything about you."

Hancock jumps to his feet. "Oh," he says. "How rude of me, skippin' the introductions. Piper, this is Cait, reigning champion of the Combat Zone, fifty fights undefeated. A shotgun-toting hellcat of the finest order. And if you're wondering what she did..."

"Hancock," says Cait, a warning note in her voice.

He completely ignores it, grinning. "Fucked the head honcho of the Brotherhood of Steel, right in the middle of the zeppelin."

"Oh my god," says the journalist, her eyebrows high. "You've been on the zep? What's it like?"

"Come on, Piper," says the Mayor. "You wanna know about the zep when there's a naked Elder to talk about? Do you know anything about journalism?"

She glares at him. "Is it in the interests of the public?"

He holds up his hands. "Duh, yes. Have you even seen him?"

"No," says the journalist. "Have you?"

"No!" he says. "That's what makes it so perfect! Say what you want, and sell a thousand copies anyway. It ain't like he'll come down here to correct you."

The journalist coughs. "Uh, so, anyway. I haven't seen Nate, not for a while. He gave me an interview but then got pissed when I, you know, actually published it. If he hadn't wanted it published he could have just said, but..."

"That sounds like him," says Cait. "Not tellin' you shite then gettin' angry when you don't know shite."

"Well," says the journalist, "we all know... shite. But we know different... shite. If we pool our resources, we'll have a better idea. Maybe we can work out where he is."

"You ain't gonna publish it though, right?" says the Mayor.

"Look," says the journalist, empty hands in the air. "No notepad."

"You got a fierce memory though, Piper," he says, with a grin. "Apparently."

"Come on," she says, with a frustrated sigh. "Teamwork. We all know about the wife and kid, so what else do we have?"

"Hang on," says Cait. "What the fuck?"

All three of them turn to stare at her. She feels that burning in her cheeks, but it ain't the sun this time.

"Seriously," she says. "He just picked me up in the Combat Zone and told me to shoot stuff. He never told me a damn thing about a wife. Or anything."

They explain, complete with awkward pauses and even more awkward glances between them. Frozen for two hundred years. A wife, murdered. A kid, stolen. Infiltration of the god-damned Institute to get him back? He never told her anything about that.

The journalist leans against the back of her chair, lights up a cigarette. "Why would he go with the Brotherhood," she says, more of a spoken thought than a real question. "It doesn't make sense. Anti-synth, anti-ghoul, and look who he spends his time with."

Yeah, thinks Cait. Look who he spends his time with.

"Okay," says the journalist. "I don't have any more of an idea where he might be. I'll keep an eye out. But, you know... if anyone can track him down, it's Valentine. You'd be better off talking to him."

"Okay," says the Mayor, holding out the scarf. "Wrap me up, Piper."

She looks at him for a moment, before taking the scarf.

"Did that sound kinda rude?" he asks. "I hope it did."

"Yeah," says the journalist, awkwardly, winding the scarf around his face. "But Valentine just went out of town, on a job. So you guys need to hole up somewhere until he's back, and before you even say it? That can't be here. I got Nat to look out for."

The Mayor mumbles something through the scarf.

"Try the Dugout Inn," she says. "Or, you know where. Now go on, get out of here, I got my own problems to deal with."

The sniper takes the lead again, into a pub that has some interesting bottles of booze on the shelves and a scent that's not so different to the Combat Zone on a hot night. He seems to be trying to sweet-talk the owner, but even from this far away she can hear his voice raise as he says "How much? Holy shi... c'mon, Vadim. Really?"

"Is last room," says the owner, just as loudly, grinning widely. "Definitely worth it."

The sniper gives an odd tilt of the head, and stalks back across the bar toward them. "I've never even seen as many caps as he was just asking for."

The Mayor mumbles through his scarf at them.

"What?" she asks.

His arm darts out and grabs her elbow. He's pretty strong, despite how small he is. He leads her out of the pub, the sniper trailing behind. Lets go when they're standing next to an empty power armour station, and gestures at a door, with his head. Another complicated gesture with his gloved hands.

"Breakin' and enterin', eh?" she says. "Got a bobby pin?"

The sniper reaches in a pocket and produces a small handful of them.

"Thanks, Mac," she says, with a wink. "Cover me."

He coughs, says "sure", and turns away.

She kneels in front of the door, and has it open in barely any time at all. Inside is another shitehole. No brahmin here, at least, just a bare room with a couple of mouldy sofas, a set of plastic chairs, and a few bags of cement.

"Nate's city pad," says the Mayor, pulling the scarf from his face, handing it back to the sniper. "Not a patch on the old State House, but it'll do. Hey Mac, you pick up any of that moonshine?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: you're in Diamond City. You're missing a person. Where else are you going to go?


	7. Valentine's Detective Agency

It's morning again, or somewhere near it. She shakes her head, stifling a groan as her brain bounces off the inside of her skull. She sits up and looks around. The Mayor's curled up in one of the chairs, feet tucked under one of the armrests, face nuzzled into his own elbow. The sniper's sprawled on the other couch, one foot propped up on the arm, the other hooked under his knee. He's snoring like a bastard, but he looks happier than he did last morning, anyway.

She presses a hand to her forehead. Feels like a brahmin's been sat on it all night. Bobrov's best moonshine, the other two had called the stuff. Best poison, more like.

The sniper's eyes snap open. "I'm starving," he says.

Her own stomach lurches at the thought of food. She rests her elbows on her knees and stares at the concrete, trying to settle her breathing. Judging by how hard that is, feels like that brahmin might have spent a while sat on her chest, too.

There's a scuffling and couple of footsteps, then a muttered half-curse. The sniper falls back onto the couch, springs snapping and the legs scraping loudly on the floor.

She looks up to check he hasn't hurt himself. His eyes are open, but he's sagged back into the cushions and shaking his head like he's trying to recover from a bad punch.

"Woah," he says, though she hadn't asked. "I really need to eat. You okay?"

"Never better," she says.

He gives her a look. "Is that what you always say?"

"Yeah," she says.

He picks up his cap, turns it in his hands. "I'm gonna go get some noodles. You want anything?"

"Fuck no," she says. It comes out meaner than she meant it to. "I mean... just no. Thanks."

He's up and out in barely a few moments, closing the door behind him quietly.

She blinks hard, wonders what the imaginary brahmin would have done to her eyeballs to make them so dry. _Why'd you have to hit the drink so hard_ , she asks herself, rubbing her eyes. _Oh yeah, because you're an arsehole, that's why. An arsehole who's been being a right prick to the first person to show you any kindness in forever._

One who's been through quite enough already, by the sounds of things.

"Shite," she says, out loud.

"Shoulder givin' you trouble?" says the Mayor.

She nearly jumps out of her skin, not realising he was awake. "Don't know what you're talking about," she says, trying to collect herself.

He gets to his feet, stretches his neck from side to side, and pads around the back of her couch. "I'm somethin' of an expert in alcohol- and chem-related injuries. Sit back, I know a little trick that'll make it feel better."

"Don't fuckin' come near me," she says, twisting her neck to keep an eye on him, and that wrenches her stupid shoulder too.

"Simmer down," he says. "At some point you're gonna have to start trustin' me. Us. C'mon. Sit back. Let me help."

She does sit back a little, but makes sure her feet are still on the ground, ready to push off if she needs it.

His fingers press against her skin, every movement of them sending sparks down her arm. "Fahrenheit gets the same thing," he says, conversationally.

"Fahrenheit?" says Cait, her body still trying to flinch away. "Who's that?"

"Another girl who drinks heavy and sleeps heavier," he replies. "You'd like each other. Or want to rip each other's heads off on sight. Not sure which, but it'd probably be interesting to watch."

He digs a thumb right into a knot of muscle, hard.

"Fuck," she yells, leaping up and away from him. She curses some more as she clutches her shoulder. But when she clenches her fist, the fingers don't feel as weak as normal.

"You can thank me later," he says, with a grin, leaning his elbows on the back of the couch. "Or not, I don't mind. Takes more than that to offend me."

There's a thump at the door, maybe a kick. The Mayor drops down behind the couch. A hand appears over the backrest, pointing at the door, and a quiet voice. "It's probably just Mac," he says, "but, you know. Can't be too careful when you've broken into a place. Go on, answer it."

She opens the door, cautiously. It is the sniper, shovelling noodles into his mouth from an overflowing bowl. "Want some?" he says.

She shudders and backs well away from the smell.

"They're good, trust me," he says, through another mouthful. "No? Okay. I talked to Arturo, he says if you aren't already, you should be using these, way better than the other kind." He balances the bowl in one hand while he uses the other to dig in a pocket, and pulls out a few packs of shells.

She pulls a crumpled pack from her pocket and shows it to him. Same brand.

"See," says the sniper. "I told him you were good. Valentine's back, too, we should go over there. Uh, when you're ready."

Outside, the air's filled with an annoying drizzle, and as much as it is cool against her burning cheeks, it does make it even harder to breathe. It must have been raining heavier overnight, because the City's wooden walkways are soaked in mud and slippery as hell. She catches the Mayor twice as he's about to skid off into a wall, and nearly loses her own balance as they turn into a dark alleyway that's lit only by a bright pink heart-shaped light.

"Oh," she says. "Valentine's. Very fuckin' clever."

They let themselves into an office full of files and cigarette smoke. A pair of yellow eyes turns to look at them. Shabby hat, shabbier coat, broken face. So this is the detective people can't stop talking about.

"Good morning," he says, eyes darting between the three of them. "Can I help you?"

"Maybe," says Cait. "We're looking for someone."

The detective smiles, lights a cigarette with a gold-plated fliplighter. "Not the first time a woman's walked into my office to ask that question. Usually has a more sinister meaning when she comes backed up by a pair of heavies, but I don't think I've stepped on any toes recently. Why don't you take a seat, tell me what this is about."

She sits down, cautiously.

The detective's eyes flick over her shoulder to the Mayor, who's uttering muffled curses.

"Oh," says the detective. "Hancock."

He's unwrapped his face, then.

"Valentine," says the Mayor, amusement in his voice.

"Hancock, MacCready, Cait" she says, impatiently, pointing at each one of them in turn. "You know Nate, right? We're trying to find him. Apparently you're good at that."

"Nate's missing?" says the detective, raising a pair of odd-looking eyebrows.

"Not exactly," she says, trying not to stare at them. "We just need to find him. Thought we'd come to the expert."

"Well," says the detective, "I'm sorry to say I haven't seen him for weeks, maybe months. Not since he headed on up to Cambridge to look into some radio signal or other."

The Mayor leans backwards against the desk, looks over his shoulder at the detective with a smirk. "He's been with the Brotherhood," he says. "Cait knows all about them."

She shoots the Mayor a warning glance. Not now, Hancock. Not now.

"That so?" says the detective. "The Brotherhood, huh. I suppose that makes some kind of sense. He's military, after all, though I can't say I thought their ideals would particularly appeal to him. What can you tell me about them? He have any friends there?"

"A Paladin," she says. "His... mentor. They were... close. But he turned out to be a synth, so they chucked him out."

"Oh," says the detective. "Just chucked out, huh?"

She frowns. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He stubs out his cigarette. "The Brotherhood aren't exactly known for their merciful tendencies. Their style's more terminate with extreme prejudice, no questions asked, if you know what I mean."

What was it Nate had said in the streets, spitting the words at her like they were made of poison. _His life is over_.

She rubs her eyes, remembering them staggering in the gate together. "They turned up in Jamaica Plain like they were bein' chased by a giant deathclaw."

"Oh," says the detective, "that's a new one. Last I heard it was overrun by ferals. How is it?"

"Seen worse," she says. Can't stop thinking about the Paladin's bowed head, those big shoulders sagging and weak. Much as she'd tried not to listen, the Paladin had talked and talked about how great the Brotherhood were, how proud he was to be part of them. Now he's everything he ever hated and his so-called brothers want him dead.

Poor bastard. 

"So," the detective is saying, "Nate's got two things on his mind. He needs to make sure that this... friend of his is safe, and that the Brotherhood don't go on the hunt and get trigger-happy in his nice new settlement. Minutemen are coming up in the world, he doesn't want to start a war, not until he's ready for it. Where's he going to go?"

"Oh," says the Mayor, rapping his knuckles on the desk. "I know. The Castle."

The detective is nodding. "My thoughts exactly," he says. "He's going to look for the safest place he can find, with people that he trusts. A place the Brotherhood don't have any cause to go, not unless they really go crazy."

"A castle?" she says, doubtfully.

The detective nods. "Don't worry, it's not the pretty towers and princesses kind. It's thick walls and heavy guns, the useful kind. I'll give you a map. It'll take you a while to get there from here, so don't forget to stock up before you leave the city. The streets aren't always kind to travellers."

"You don't want to come along, Nicky?" says the Mayor.

"Oh, I'd only slow you down," says the detective, with a wry smile. "I'll leave the walking to the experts."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: The squad take to the streets, but the streets don't take too kindly to them.


	8. On the Road

The first sign of trouble is when a bullet hits the sniper in the shoulder. It came out of nowhere, and got him right in his shooting arm.

"Fuck," he says. He pulls out a pistol, readies it with the other hand. But the bullet's nicked a nerve or an artery or something. He goes white as a sheet, staggers back against a building, and crumples to the ground in a heap.

"Fuckin' marvellous," she says.

There's six or seven raiders, popping out of cover in front of them. She chances a look over her shoulder and there's a couple more there, too. She reaches her hand in her pocket. Readies some shells. Doesn't need to know numbers to work out their chances. They're looking pretty shite. Then the raiders raise their weapons, and they look a bit worse.

The Mayor raises his hands. "Oh no," he says, "you got us, please don't hurt us, we'll give you everything we have."

"The fuck are you doing," she hisses. "I'm not going down without a fight."

But he's chuckling, and pressing something into her hand.

She takes it. Just a stim.

"Little something to liven things up," he says.

There's not a lot of right times to smack down some unnamed chems, specially not when the named ones are starting to make your gums bleed and the hangovers look like sunshine and hubflowers. But this, this is probably as close as you can get to right. So she slams it in.

The two of them do pretty well, somehow. Back to back, cutting the raiders down with bullets until it's two against two. But then they both have to reload at exactly the wrong moment. She sees a baseball bat swinging for her head, then stars. Then nothing.

  
After leaving Diamond City, they'd picked their way through the streets. Holed up in a broken gas station for the night. They barely drank a thing, but she was exhausted. Listened to the two boys arguing about guard duty for a bit, then threw her bedroll on the ground, just to wait it out.

Next time she opened her eyes, she found the Mayor curled up against her with his back pressing into her side. On her other side, the sniper was facing her, nose pressed against her shoulder. His hat was upside-down on the floor above his head, as though it'd fallen off his head as he slept.

"The fuck is this?" she said, dazed.

The sniper smiled, and sleepily rubbed his nose on her shoulder.

"Wake up, you dozy bastard," she said. "Who's on fuckin' guard?"

He opened his eyes, looked hazily at her. "I put down some mines, we're fine."

With a deliberate move of the head, she looked from his eyes to his arm, which was still slung over her waist.

"Oh," he said, following her line of sight. "Oh. Sorry."

He lifted it off her gently, like he was expecting it to burst into flame.

By then the Mayor had woken up, and was stretching with an enthusiastic yawn. "Morning, folks," he said.

She glared at him. "Fuckin' yay," she said. "Lovin' it."

"Ain't you a regular ray of sunshine," said the Mayor, with a grin. "Look, you lay down and passed out right in the middle of the only dry bit of floor, so we didn't have much of a choice. The hugging was an added bonus. Mac going off-script, you know."

"Ah," said the sniper. "It's just... ah... how I am when I'm asleep."

"Not with me, you're not," said the Mayor.

"Yeah, well," said the sniper. "You're not as... warm."

  
When she comes to, the Mayor's on his knees, hands behind his back, probably tied. There's a raider stood behind him, holding Mac's rifle. Looks like he's never touched anything so expensive in his life, keeps looking down at it to admire the build.

She pushes herself up, manages to get herself onto her knees before there's a kick against her boot. The other one announcing his presence, she guesses. Then there are fingers bunching in her hair, dragging her head back. She snarls, hits at his hand, digs her nails into his skin. Hopes she's raised a bit of blood with her nails, she knows how much that pisses a person off. There's something waving around just out of her field of view, a knife, maybe, or a pistol. Can't see what it is, though. Not safe to grab it. Not yet.

The Mayor's not worried. He's not worried at all, in fact a smile is spreading over his face. "Hey raider friends," he says. "Do you want to know what happened to the last guy who pulled her hair?"

"If we wanted to know we'd have asked," says the one behind her.

He shakes his head, with an exaggerated expression of sadness. "She ripped his dick clean off."

She blinks. Wonders where that came from. The chems are circling. So damn close, if she could just get up a bit, just reach out and catch them.

The raider behind her laughs, tugs her hair again, lifting her just enough that she can scuff a foot under her, get her toes on the ground and release some of the pressure on her scalp. "Whatever, freak," he says. "She don't look like much from this angle."

"You're entitled to your opinion," says the Mayor. "But you don't have all the information. It's important to stay informed, especially when you're making big decisions, like whether you wanna die in old age, surrounded by friends and loved ones."

He pauses, for effect. Lifts those black eyes to a point just above her head. "Or today."

"Shut the fuck up," says the one behind him, but it's not as vitriolic as she'd have been. He's tapping his fingers on the rifle, looking nervously around.

"See," continues the Mayor, in a conversational tone, "I'm just a simple ghoul, that's obvious. You already took out our gunner. You're lookin' at her, thinking that she's just one of us, a devastatingly attractive drifter travelling the roads of the Commonwealth, ripe for the picking."

Her raider is spitting mad. "For fuck's sake," he says to his companion, "will you shut him up?"

Undaunted, the Mayor continues. "You guys ever go to the Combat Zone? Remember a fiery redhead with fists of steel? Undefeated, even the Combat Zone went down before she did. She was quite something. Shame you never got to see her in action."

His raider looks like might have been there. Or heard of it at least. His eyes widen, his gaze turning on her.

She bares her teeth at him.

"Until now, anyway," says Hancock, shaking frayed bits of rope from his wrists, a blade glittering in his right hand. He spins up, gracefully, knife arcing into the raider's side with a few swift jabs.

That's her cue. She pushes up, and cracks the top of her skull up into her raider's jaw, adding a few more stars to the ones still dancing in front of her eyes from the bat. He howls and staggers back, blood oozing from his mouth. Bit his tongue, by the looks of things. Way he's holding his hand says his fingers didn't come out of it too well, either.

That'll teach him to pull a girl's hair.

Before long he's gonna be on his back, spitting out blood and teeth, wondering if he can get back in the game. Not just yet, though. He's still under his own power. He's crouching, backing away, but she knows how fast a coward can move, and adjusts for it. Her fist meets his face with a crunch.

_Now_ he's flat on his back, trying to push himself up to his elbows. She steps toward him, bending down to scoop up her shotgun and check that it's loaded. He's backing away from her, scrabbling through the dirt on elbows and skidding feet like a scared mirelurk.

"Stop movin'," she says, aiming the gun at his head.

But she doesn't shoot.

"You going soft, Cait?" asks the Mayor, appearing at her side.

"Not likely," she says. "I'm just thinking. Bullets cost caps. Is it really worth it? Just to rub this pitiful waste of breath out?"

The Mayor brandishes his knife. "We could cut him up? That's free and fun."

"I dunno," says Cait. "I think he's learned a valuable lesson here today."

"Leaving him alive does present the whole awkward revenge scenario," says the Mayor.

The raider's saying nothing, just breathing hard, looking terrified from one to the other of them.

"True," she says. "But if he's alive, he's talkin'. We could do with some rumours goin' around about how fuckin' dangerous we are."

See if Nate pays us any attention then, she thinks.

The Mayor lets out a little musical hum. "Good point," he says, and tucks his blade away.

She leans forward, looks into the raider's rapidly swelling eyes. "Go on. Get lost. Tell everyone you meet that the Reject Squad ain't to be messed with. Understand?"

Back on the street, the sniper's staring up into the sky, white-faced and shivering. His eyes are open, but his pupils are the wrong size, and a lot of his blood is not where it's supposed to be.

"Come on Hancock," says Cait, "chuck me a stimpak."

She jabs it into the sniper's arm. The blood stops flowing as fast, and a light flush starts to show in his cheeks. He starts to stir.

"I'm dead," he says, his voice faint and slurring, "I'm actually dead. And it really fuckin' hurts. That's not fair." He reaches up, presses his hand onto her cheek. "Are you an angel?"

"Shut your face, MacCready," she says. "You're not dead." She takes his hand, firmly replaces it by his side.

He keeps lifting it, smearing dirt and blood over her face.

She slaps it away again. "You will be, if you don't stop pawing at me," she says. "What is this, come on."

He coughs, the most pitiful sound she's heard in forever.

The Mayor's chuckling behind her. She'll have deal with him later. "Alright," she says, to the sniper. "I'm an angel sent to get you to the Castle. Now will you stop fuckin' touchin' me face and let us help you?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: There's a castle. But where's the princess? :-o


	9. The Castle

The Mayor goes a bit quiet after that. He's holding his gun a bit higher, scanning the road ahead with a bit more care. The sniper's moving on his own, without a supporting arm, but he's still pale and he can't aim his rifle straight.

She might be holding her shotgun a little tighter.

After a few hours, they step out from the last of the city's buildings and see a set of white walls off in the distance. Flat and squat, looks like they're burrowed down into the earth like a mirelurk. A really big one, with a radio antenna stuck on its shell.

"This it?" says Cait. "It's ugly as hell."

The sniper drops to his haunches, smooths out the map over his knee. Probably trying to rest and regain his breath as much as check where they are. "Yeah," he says, after a couple of moments. "Definitely."

"Not exactly what I imagined," she says, holding out a hand to help him up. "Where's in?"

One path leads directly to a bright concrete wall, half-covered in scaffolding. They could climb over it, she reckons, but that might not be the best way to make friends. Then there's another path that leads out over a spit of sand, round the other side of the place. Opposite side to the Brotherhood zeppelin, which looks pretty massive even from this distance.

There's a handful of soldiers in dusty brown outfits walking up there on the walls. They don't seem to be paying them much attention. And there's a suit of power armour by the gate. Plain, unpainted metal, looks like it might even be rusty. Shoulders so big and round she can hardly see the face poking out of it. When she does, there's no mistaking those eyebrows, and that shock of dark hair.

"That's him," she says. "The Paladin."

"The synth?" says the sniper.

"Danse," she says. "His name's Danse." She shakes her head, not really sure why she's correcting him. He _is_  a synth, after all. But he does have a name.

"Nice of him to take up arms again," says the Mayor.

"Always on duty," she says, thinking back to the Combat Zone. How much of an arsehole she'd thought he was, then. "He's very dedicated."

As they get closer, the Paladin goes a bit more on the alert. When he looks at her, those eyebrows raise, just for a moment. Then he averts his eyes, looks over the water, at the other two, anywhere but at her.

"Danse," she says.

He nods, still not looking at her. As good a greeting as she's likely to get.

"Nate here?" she asks.

"No," he says.

"Any idea where he is?"

He meets her eyes for a second. Says a whole lot, that look. No, it says. He has no idea. And he's not best pleased about it, either.

"Can we come in?" she says. "Mac got himself shot, needs a doctor."

"Certainly," he says, pulling himself up a bit taller. Back on duty. "Go on in."

"What was that?" says the sniper. "Couldn't hear you over the clanking."

"Shut your face, MacCready," says Cait, grabbing his arm, dragging him through the gate into an open space, dusty underfoot. There's quite a few people around, chatting or just loitering with cigarettes. One of them sees the trio and approaches them. Friendly eyes, if a little tired-looking. Brown coat, like the ones on the walls, half of his hat pinned up. Probably for better shooting, judging by the old-fashioned laser musket in his hands.

And he's got a huge dog trotting at his heels.

"Hey there, friends," he says. "Preston Garvey, Commonwealth Minutemen. Welcome to the Castle." He pauses, and frowns at the sniper. "MacCready? Is that you? Man, you look terrible."

The dog sits down and yawns noisily, showing off a set of bright, sharp teeth.

"We were ambushed by raiders," she says, staring at the teeth. "He got shot pretty bad. You got a doctor here?"

"Absolutely," says the Minuteman. "We've got just about everything. Shops, fresh produce, enough water to supply half the Commonwealth." He's beaming as he speaks, full of pride.

"Doctor?" says the sniper, faintly.

"Oh," says the Minuteman. He points off to the side of the courtyard. "Through that door, turn left. Can't miss it."

As the sniper weaves away, she elbows the Mayor. "Go on, Hancock," she says. "Make sure he's not scared of needles, as well as heights."

The Minuteman has a curious expression on his face. "Is that... John Hancock? From Goodneighbor?"

"Yeah," she says.

"The one who..." He pauses, gives a little shake of his head. "Never mind. Interesting group you've got."

"Yeah," says Cait. "We teamed up, sorta, to look for Nate. I guess you know him?"

The dog reaches forward, sniffs at her knee. She takes a step back.

"Don't worry," he says, "Dogmeat's friendly. Well, as long as you're not a raider, or, you know, any kind of threat. Anyway, yes, the General. I know him. You say you're looking for him? What for?"

She folds her arms. "To begin with, it was to punch him in the face."

"Oh," he says, with genuine surprise.

"Still is," she says. "A bit. I think. I don't know. Step one is to find him, then I can decide whether or not to deck him. Any ideas?"

"I'm sorry," says the Minuteman. "I don't know where he is. He showed up a few days ago, told me what had happened with his friend. I thought he'd stay, make sure the guy got settled in. But he just picked up some supplies and left."

She nods. "Seems to be a habit. Don't suppose he said where he was going?"

He shakes his head. "Not a word. I'm sorry I can't help, I could do with some help from him too. Been pretty difficult to get hold of him over the last few months."

The Brotherhood. Getting in everyone's way. "What about Danse?" she says. "How's he?"

"You know him?" says Garvey, with surprise. "Well, after I said he could help out around the place, he just went to stand out there. Kinda stayed there. He doesn't talk to anyone, just comes in, fetches his food, goes back out. I think he's even slept out there a couple of times."

"In the suit?"

He nods. "It's good that he's out there, I think we all feel safer for it. I'm just concerned. He needs to rest some, before he burns out. Believe me, I know. But he won't listen to anyone."

She feels an actual pang of sympathy. Poor bastard.

"Look," he says. "I've got some duties to look after, so I'd better head off. You're welcome to stay here as long as you like. I'll get one of our guys to clear out a couple of rooms for you."

She tracks down the other two in something that must be a bar. They're eating bowls of slop, one spare on the table for her. She's just washing down a particularly unpleasant mouthful with a sneaky shot of whiskey when the Paladin appears. And it's not that bad, it's not like the room hushes when he enters. He just walks in, buys a packet of something, and walks straight back out again. No eye-contact with anyone. Not a word.

"Friendly guy," says the Mayor, watching him leave. He pulls a lump of something out of his bowl, and inspects it. "What even is this?"

She tries to tear a piece apart with her teeth, without much success. "Tough as shit, whatever it is."

"Probably mirelurk," he says. "The doctor told us a nice little story about how they cleared this place out, when she was patching Mac up. Ugh. I thought the normal-sized ones tasted bad."

She drums her fingers on the table. "I'm going to go talk to him," she says.

"The tin can?" says the Mayor, pushing the bowl away. "Good luck with that."

She approaches the bar, which is just a rough wooden table with a couple of shelves piled up behind it. "Chuck me a couple of beers," she says, dropping a handful of caps on the counter. Barkeep's blonde, pretty thing, wind-burned nose and cheeks. She winks and sets them down on the counter, and throws in a pack of snack cakes, too.

Sure enough, he's outside the wall, sat on a line of rocks looking over the water. Suit's cold and dark, standing behind him like an over-sized shadow. He startles at her approach, and starts to get to his feet.

"Sit down, Danse," she says. She settles herself nearby but not too close, and far enough away from the suit that she can't smell the grease on it. She pulls out one of the beers, cracks it open, and offers it to him.

"No," he says. "Thank you."

Suit yourself, she thinks, but holds it in for once. Gets out the cakes, offers them as well, expecting him to reject those too. But he reaches out a big hand and takes one. She grabs one too, and places the packet on the rock between them. Takes a swig of her beer and wonders how it came to this. Sitting by the sea, chewing on stale snack cakes with a grumpy synth.

She tries again with the other beer. This time he takes it.

"Thank you," he says.

"S'ok," she says.

"I'm not good with... people," he says. "Even before..."

She drinks her beer. Reaches out for another cake, but there's only one left. She leaves it for him. Big lad. Needs a lot of food.

"You miss him," she says, looking out across the water. It's a statement, not a question, but she chances a look at him to see if there is an answer.

He doesn't move at all. Stares down into his beer.

"I haven't seen him," she says. "But I bet he's missin' you, too."

He starts rubbing a hand over his eyes, angry, maybe. Or upset.

Crying only ever got her a smack, or worse, so she's got no idea what to do here. She thinks back. Number of times Nate'd been faced with a tearstained farmer. She'd be rolling her eyes, walking away, come on, Nate, let's just go. Then she'd turn back to see him with an arm round their shoulder, or with them collapsed against his chest for a hug. Always reassuring them that it was going to be ok.

Fuck.

She moves the empty packet out of the way, and shuffles up next to him. Puts an awkward arm around his back.

He tenses. "What are you doing?"

"I'm trying to be comforting," she says. "You're not the only one who's shite with people, so feel free to tell me to fuck off."

He doesn't say anything so she stays put, even though the stench of armour grease is pretty strong on him. She feels his shoulders drop a little, and a bit more weight pressing against her side.

Maybe someone else trying out the whole trust thing for the first time. Funny how that happens.

"It's ok," she says. "I'll bring him back for you. I promise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: The squad goes sightseeing along a certain famous trail.


	10. Old North Church

Next morning the Minuteman's standing out in the courtyard. He seems to have been waiting for one of them to surface, because he walks straight over to her.

If this is what being up first is always like, she's not interested.

"Good morning," he says, with a smile that's far too cheery for this time of day. He's unfolding a piece of paper. "After we talked yesterday, I asked around a bit. Nobody had much to say, except one guy who gave me this. I'm not sure what it means, exactly, but it's all we've got to go on."

He hands over the piece of paper. It has a picture on it, maybe a lamp or something. Words underneath.

"He still here?" she says, sharply. "Maybe I'd like to talk to 'im meself."

The Minuteman looks around. "I don't see him. I hadn't seen him before, actually. Which is odd, I make a point to greet civilians, they don't tend to come out here unless they're in trouble."

"What'd he look like then?" she asks.

"Bald," he says, frowning a little. "Dark glasses. Hard to describe, really."

The sniper appears at her elbow, and leans over her shoulder. "Follow the Freedom Trail," he says. "Hey, I know where that is, it goes right by Goodneighbor."

"Hey, MacCready," says the Minuteman. "You okay?"

"Yeah, actually," says the sniper. "Thanks for asking."

The Minuteman smiles. "I don't know anything about this, but it seems like the sort of thing the General would find irresistible."

She folds her arms. A ridiculous mystery to do with freedom. Yeah. Sounds like Nate.

"Okay," she says. "Let's do it. You know where we're going, right?"

"Yeah, Boston Common," says the sniper, waving to the Mayor, who's just appeared at her other elbow. "Ready when you are."

The walk there is blissfully uneventful. They stand in front of a red circle on the ground, from which a line of red leads off to the right. The sniper's frowning at some markings on it.

"Oh, it's a code," he says. "Okay, I've got this."

They follow the trail, the sniper stopping in front of more red circles. Each time, he stops and squints down at it, moving his lips. After a few he laughs to himself as though he's just understood a joke.

They're passing through a narrow alley with a fire escape on one side and a couple of trash cans at the end, when he slams sideways against the wall and starts gesturing at them to do the same.

"Bit dramatic, dontcha think?" says the Mayor.

"Get down," hisses the sniper. "Mutants."

He creeps forward, up the first flight of steps. A long silence, then four shots ring out, in quick succession. After the first one, there's grunts and shouts of anger from the rest of them; but one by one, they're cut out.

Silence.

She looks up at him. "Coulda left something for me to do."

"I did," he says, and points at the mutant hound that's barrelling across the square towards them.

She grins and takes it out with a single shell.

The Mayor complains about feeling left out, but they persuade him to keep following the trail. It ends at an old church. There's a growling coming from nearby. An ominous kind of growling.

"I forgot the first letter already," says the Mayor.

"Don't worry about it, Hancock," says the sniper. "I've got it."

"Shh, I'm trying to think," says the Mayor, frowning up at the sky. "Was it C or L?"

"Neither," says the sniper, "seriously, we're good."

The growling does come from the church. Turns out to be a nest of glowing ferals, which is fun to deal with. But before long, they're deep in the vaults, and the sniper's turning a dial on the wall. The sound of metal scraping against metal is putting her teeth on edge, but then the wall pulls back and there's bright spotlights, right in her eyes, which is definitely worse.

"Fuck's sake," she says, into the glare. "Is this really necessary?"

"Until we know who you are?" says a husky voice. "Yes."

She sighs. A friendly greeting was probably too much to expect.

"MacCready, Hancock, Cait," she says. "Also known as the Reject Squad, here for all your shootin', stabbin', and fightin' needs. Now will you please turn the fuckin' lights down?"

The lights do dim, slightly.

"Fuckin' hell," she mutters, rubbing her eyes.

When she can see again, she makes out three figures up above her. Straight ahead is a blonde, scarf around her neck. On the right, a kid in a blue coat, waving a gun around like he doesn't actually know how to use it. On the left, grey hair, heavy armour, huge gun that she's carrying like it's got no weight to it at all. Tilt of the chin that says she's the one that's supposed to be intimidating.

Cait happens to know a bit about that. So she steps forward.

"Who the fuck are you lot, then?" she says.

The blonde one keeps her gaze fixed. Very calm, she is. "Well," she says, "most people who walk in here have some idea about that."

The grey-haired one snorts.

"Well," says Cait. "Pretend we're three fuckin' idiots who just managed to stumble on your little den by chance. Or, y'know, followin' the bleedin' trail right to your door. By the way, we cleared out yer basement for you, you're welcome."

The one on the left is laughing quietly. She drops her minigun to the ground, and lights up a cigarette.

"Glory," says the blonde, looking over at her, a warning tone in her voice.

"Dez," she replies, snapping her lighter closed. "I like this one. Let her talk."

Glory and Dez. Okay. One's the heavy, the other's the boss, or so she thinks she is, anyway. What the prick in blue is there to do is another question.

"We're looking for someone," says Cait. "Dark hair, dark eyes, broken nose."

"No idea who you're talking about," says the blonde, looking coolly at her.

"Desperate urge to get into the Institute?" says Cait.

This Dez is pretty good. Her face doesn't move a fraction of an inch, absolutely no sign of recognition whatever. Still standing with that look of disinterest.

"He got there," says Cait. "Didn't bring him much joy."

That hits home. The one in blue looks at his boss with a nice bit of wide-eyed shock.

Dez breathes out the words. "He already built the relay." She looks at her boots, then sharply back up at Cait. "Who with?"

Cait shrugs. "Dunno. Does it matter?"

"Yes," says Dez. "It does. If he built it on his own, I'd be very surprised. The only people in the Commonwealth with that sort of engineering capacity are the Institute themselves or the god-damned Brotherhood."

She curses and grinds her cigarette under her boot. Then she turns on her heel and disappears into the rooms beyond.

"Uh," says the sniper. "That doesn't seem good."

Glory drops her own cigarette. "Go on," she says, picking up her minigun. "Go through. But don't try anything funny."

Dez is leaning over a desk, tapping her fingers on it, fuming. "Is he with them now?"

"No," says Cait. "I don't think so, anyway. Though we are runnin' out of places to look."

He can't be there, she thinks. Surely not. Not after all of this.

"I should cross him off the list right now," says Dez, curling her fingers like she wants to make them into a fist.

"Dez," says Cait, "he's not your enemy."

"It's Desdemona to you," says Dez. "And the Brotherhood are our enemy. So if he's with them now... god damn it. Drummer Boy, have you heard nothing from Deacon? At all?"

"Nothing," he says. "Well... there was one note came in, but I still don't think it was him."

Now Dez does make a fist, and slams it on the table. "You got a note and didn't think to mention it?"

"It was nonsense," he says. "It doesn't follow any of the ciphers. Even P.A.M. thought it was nothing."

Dez bites her lip and pauses. A woman trying to retain control over herself. "What did it say?"

He pulls a small square of paper from his pocket and reads it out loud, frowning. "Uh... 'ask about the coat'."

The Mayor is perched on a nearby desk, inspecting his shoes. He looks up now, a slow smile spreading across his face.

Dez's mouth starts to form into the first syllable of a question.

"Don't," says Cait.

Drummer Boy coughs. "It carries on: 'don't ask about the mutfruit'."

"Oh god," says the sniper.

"I resent that," says the Mayor, grinning widely now. "My story's far better."

Cait snorts. "That's what you think."

He points at her, his voice jubilant. "I knew there was more to it. I knew, didn't I say, Mac?" He continues mouthing the words, _I knew_ , even as she folds her arms and continues to talk to Dez.

"Who is this Deacon fella?" she says. "Might need to have a word with him."

"Field agent," says Glory, lighting another cigarette and handing it to Dez. "You've probably met him. Listen, Dez, he's probably pissed, too. He seemed pretty smitten, back at Malden. The lies were off the charts, and you know he only does that when he's in love."

"I've never noticed a difference," says Dez.

Glory raises a pale eyebrow in response. "Well, yeah."

"I need to run this by P.A.M.," continues Dez, shaking her head. "You three need to go. But for god's sake try to be quieter going out than you were coming in, we could hear your chattering from three blocks away. If you bring the Institute to our door I will hunt you down and rip you limb from limb. Personally."

Charming, thinks Cait. But you've got to respect that sentiment.

The sniper's sat on a chair in front of the Mayor's desk, leaning about as far back as he can go without falling over backwards. She resists the tempation to give him a bit of a nudge.

"What do we do now?" says Cait. "I don't mind tellin' you I'm pretty fuckin' sick of walking."

"Me too," says the sniper, chair creaking under him.

The Mayor pushes himself off the desk, and grins widely. "You're in luck," he says. "I just happen to know a place."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: If I need to tell you, you weren't payin' attention.


	11. Goodneighbor

"And here we are," says the Mayor, proudly, as they walk through the gate.

It's kinda like Hangman's Alley, in a way. Except... bigger. Looks less like it's going to fall down. Good neons too, gotta like some good lighting effects.

Can't seem too keen, though.

"Smells like shite," she says, wrinkling her nose.

The Mayor slings his arm around her shoulder. "The sweet perfume of Goodneighbor. Doesn't bother you after a while, or so say the folks here who still have noses. C'mon, let me show you around."

By the time they reach a set of steps that heads down into an old subway, he's completely mobbed. Drifters, ghouls, and a tall girl in heavy armour who's chain-smoking and glaring at the Mayor like she wants to punch him.

"Ah, my adoring public," he says. "Go on down, I'll catch up with you later."

Another dingy pub. A Mr Handy behind the bar sullenly shoves a couple of beers at them, and the sniper points out an empty booth out of the way of everyone.

"Listen," he says, after a while. "I'm sorry we didn't find him. I know it meant a lot to you."

"Yeah well," she says. "Sorry you got shot."

"That was my fault," he says. "I wasn't paying attention."

"None of us were," she says. "You're okay now though, right?"

"Yeah," he says, rolling the shoulder to prove it. "Totally. Good as new."

"Well," she says, holding up her beer. "You can carry a couple more drinks, can't you? Be a love and get me somethin' stronger than this piss."

"Aw," he says. "It does still hurt, you know." But he grins, and goes back to the bar.

She sits back. Half way round the Commonwealth they've been, and still no sign of Nate. Dumping her and the other two, that was one thing. But he seemed to have given everyone the slip. What were they supposed to do? Sit around and wait for him to turn back up?

"That guy boring you?"

A guy slides into the booth next to her. Black hair, dark glasses. It's dark enough in this dingy place without a pair of sunglasses on as well.

Try-hard.

"Piss off," she says.

"I'm just checking in on my beloved citizens," he says, taking a swig of beer. "I am the Mayor, after all."

She snorts and turns away. "You're not, and I said piss off."

"Okay," he says, cheerily. "I'll come clean. I'm not the Mayor. But I know who you are. You're Cait. Reject Squad Cait. I've heard all about you, I'm a big fan. You make great entrances."

"Am I supposed to be flattered by that?" she says.

"Up to you," he says. Then he just sits looking at her with this goofy expression.

Doesn't seem to matter where she goes, there's always someone trying to piss her off.

Well. Cait's got ways and means of dealing with that kind of shite.

"What's with the glasses?" she asks.

"Cover," he says. "Cybernetic implants. I could wrap a scarf around my face and still see perfectly. Better than you, in fact."

"Alright then," she says. "Find one. Handful of caps says you can't land a punch on me."

"Oh, wow," says the guy. "I don't know about that, I wouldn't want to hurt you, you know?"

She leans in closer, glares into the glasses. "You sayin' I'm soft?"

He leans in too, with a grin. "I didn't use those exact words, but, you know, now you've said it."

She's fought guys in shades before. They always think it makes them look cooler. Edgy. Don't look so edgy when one of the lenses has cracked and the other one's skittered away across the floor like a spent shell casing. Then there's the ones who think they're a psychic shield.

They're _really_ wrong.

She raises her chin, and stares at a point in the middle of his skull. That always pisses them off. "We can take this outside right now, if you want."

"Uh," says the sniper, sitting back down, dropping a glass in front of her. "Is this guy bothering you?"

"Not for much longer," she says, continuing the stare.

The guy leans to the side to look over her shoulder. "She's feisty," he says to the sniper. "I like her."

"C'mon Deacon," says the sniper. "Quit messin' around."

She breaks the stare to look at the sniper. "You know this prick?"

"That's no way to talk about your biggest fan," interrupts the guy. "I had front row seats at the Combat Zone, every night. Practically a groupie, except without the... you know. Sordid stuff. I'd be willing to oblige if you, you know. No? Okay."

The sniper's peeling the ancient label off his beer.

"Well?" she says. "Do you?"

"Sorta," he replies. "He was with Nate when he hired me. Months ago."

"I practically introduced them," says the guy. "I should get a finder's fee, or something. A commission."

When she turns around, he's looking right at her again.

"Commissionssss," he says. He's looking her dead in the eye, or probably is behind the glasses. As he does, she notices his eyebrows. Red as hers, despite the black hair.

The Mayor returns, and drops down into the seat beside the sniper. "What up, Deeks," he says.

"Heyyyy, Hancock," says the guy. He pauses a second, and starts patting his pockets. "Oh. Wow. Oh wow. it's the whole squad, will you autograph this... uh... me? I don't have a pen."

"You know him too?" she says.

"Yeah," says the Mayor. "He turns up sometimes."

"This is gettin' ridiculous," she says.

The guy's head droops, sadly. "Does that mean I can't be a member of the squad? Naw, it's cool, don't all rush to comfort me at once. I've got my own squad anyway. It's way bigger than yours."

"Sure it is," says the Mayor. "Bet they've all got t-shirts, too."

He starts talking to the sniper, drawing him off into a little private conversation of their own.

Well, she's stuck with the guy. So she may as well ask. She lowers her voice, just a little. "How'd you know about the coat?"

He leans in close. "I didn't. Thanks, though, story confirmed. Nice."

"Oh fuckin' hell," she says. "You're easily the most irritatin' prick I've ever met. And I've been hangin' around with these two."

"Hey," says the sniper. "That's not fair. You're the one who's always swearing and trying to fight things."

"It's in me nature," she says. "I've always been like this. If you don't like it, then tough. People don't change."

"That's not true," says the guy. "I was at the Castle. I saw you."

"You saw her what?" says the Mayor, suddenly interested again.

"Being nice," says the guy. "At least twice. Once to the tin can, and once..."

"Wait," says the sniper, waving his hand in the air. "You were at the Castle?"

"Oops," says the guy. "I said too much. Can we forget I said that?"

A thought comes to her. A memory, something the Minuteman had said. The one who gave him the flyer.

Bald head, dark glasses.

"If I pull that wig off you," she says, narrowing her eyes. "I'm gonna find a bald head under it, aren't I?"

"Naw," he says. "This is absolutely 100% my own hair. Who'd be a redhead, am I right?"

She bites back a fearsome urge to punch him right in the face. "You sent us along the trail," she says, "didn't you? For nothing, I might add."

"That I did do," he says, "but it wasn't for nothing. It was totally worth it for the look on Dez's face."

"No way were you there too," says the sniper. "C'mon, Deacon."

"You fell for the Glory disguise, huh?" the guy laughs. "Man, I can't wait to tell her. She hates it when I do that. Anyway, this has been real, but I'm gonna have to love you and leave you. Not like that, though."

"Thank fuck," she says, turning her attention to her drink. "Don't let the door hit your arse on the way out."

"Ouch," he says. "Harsh. For that, I'm not even going to sugar-coat this particular nugget of truth. He's at the airport."

All three of them turn to face the guy, whose expression is deadly serious. For a second, anyway.

"Oh man," he says, laughing out loud. "You guys are synchronised. You're adorable, really you are. You should get posters made."

"The fuck are you talkin' about?" she says. "How long's he been there? Why didn't you just say?"

"Well," he says, "he wasn't exactly ready for you. And I didn't think you were ready for him, either. Think of it as a team-building exercise."

"Team-building?" she exclaims. "Mac got shot, for fuck's sake!"

"Refusing would have blown my cover," he says. "I did only go for the shoulder."

The sniper groans.

"C'mon, Deeks," says the Mayor. "Not cool."

"Okay, okay," he says. "I had nothing to do with that. The only misdirection was the trail. I just needed another couple of days. And to make sure my friends underground know your faces so they can hunt you down if things go sour. You know? Preparation is 9/10ths of the law, or something."

"I'm sure you think you're funny," she says, "but there's a bigger fuckin' picture here."

"Trust me," he says, "I know. Now, could you all close your eyes? I need to make a dramatic exit but I don't have a smoke bomb or a Stealth-Boy on me."

She keeps her eyes firmly on him until he shrugs and wanders away, up the stairs and out into Goodneighbor.

Or around the corner to carry on spying on them. One of the two.

When she turns back around, the sniper's looking sadly into his beer. The Mayor's leaning back, elbow on the back of his seat, absorbing the atmosphere.

"Alright, fellas," she says. "I guess we've got some more walking to do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: will the squad find Nate? Will he be pleased to see them? do they remember to check in before they arrive at the airport? :gasp:


	12. Boston Airport

The sniper lowers his binoculars. "Crawling with Brotherhood assh... uh, Brotherhood. Obviously. Can't see Nate, but I guess he's on the ship."

"Well," says the Mayor. "You two can get up there. Say you want to volunteer. Promise you'll come to visit, sometime, wouldn't mind seeing the two of you in flight suits. Hey Cait, maybe you could go for round two with the Elder."

"Shut your face, Hancock," she says. "We don't have to get up there, anyway. Just need to get onto the airport. They have vertibirds going up and down all the time, we can just ask for them to fetch him down. Easy."

"Easy?" says the sniper, uncertainly.

"Yeah," she says, just as uneasily. "Well, we can't go over there like this, so c'mon Hancock, wrap your face."

"They might recognise you, too," he says, snapping the goggles over his eyes. "Depending on how much they saw of you."

She ignores the elbow being poked into her ribs and looks down at herself. She probably does look the same. "Shite," she says. "You got a spare shirt, Hancock?"

He grins. "No," he says, "but I'll gladly strip for ya. Swapsies?"

The sniper hurriedly rummages in his pack. "Uh, I have one," he says, handing it over.

She frowns at him. "Why do you have a white shirt? I've never seen you wear anything that isn't that grubby coat."

He shrugs, awkwardly. "Just in case. You know."

In case of what, she doesn't want to ask. She pulls off her wristguards, then turns her back and swaps her corset for the shirt. "How small is this?" she mutters, trying to button it up over her chest, letting out a sigh of disgust as the top buttons refuse to meet. "Lanky fuckin' streak of piss, you are."

"Oh," says the sniper, eyes wide. "Uh... what did you say?"

"Yeah," says the Mayor, with a low whistle. "If that don't get us in, nothin' will."

"Shut your faces. Both of you." She rubs her wrists, not used to feeling the air on them. "I'm not doin' this for you, I'm doin' it for him."

"If you are, you should fluff up your hair," says the Mayor, reaching out his hands. "I bet he'll like that."

She rears away. "Does it look like I do fluffy? Get away wi' you."

It still feels like someone could recognise her, so she digs out the sunglasses, and drops them onto her nose. She was going to chuck them away after the argument on the way to Hangman's Alley, but something made her keep a hold of them. Lucky, really.

"Okay," she says. "Let's do this."

There's a couple of Brotherhood wankers hovering around the entrance. One in power armour, one in an outfit with a hundred pockets on it. Scribe, maybe. The armour had raised a rifle as soon as they'd seen the trio approach.

She cricks her neck, stands up straighter, and stalks toward them.

"Nothing for you here, citizen." says the armour. "Turn around."

"We're here to see the Paladin," she says.

The armour snorts. "Which one?"

Fuck. What is his name? Paladin Nate? Danse just referred to him as Knight, until... shite.

"Well," she says, folding her arms. "I know him as 'General'. So I think you know exactly who I'm talkin' about."

"I can pass on a message," says the scribe, her eyes drifting downward. "What's it about?"

Cait snaps her fingers. "Me eyes are up here," she says. "And it's official business, thank you very much. Has to be conducted in person. So where is he?"

The scribe coughs, and looks at a point over her shoulder. "He's just in the old lounge over there. But there's paperwork to fill out before you come in. I'm going to need to see some identification."

Cait pulls down the glasses with a finger, looks over the top of them at the girl. "Do I look like I care about paperwork?"

The scribe blushes.

"Go on in," says the armour with a laugh. "Don't be too long, we lock the gates at sundown."

She nods as the scribe moves out of their way, casting awkward glances at the three of them. Yeah, you back away, love, thinks Cait. Important shite happening here.

As they walk over, a deep and angry buzzing of generators starts nagging at her ears. The lounge is full of shitey plastic seating and carpets that make her fingers tingle with static. Over to the side, there's a bank of computers, covered in glittering lights.

Oh, and a giant circular platform, huge metal arms reaching up from it into the sky.

Nate's sitting on the edge of this thing, like the sparking electricity and warning lights don't even bother him. Hands in his lap, looking blankly at the Pip-Boy, but not actually doing anything with it. He doesn't even react as they walk up to him.

She hopes they make a good impression. Probably not. She can guess the sniper's staring up at the device from the 'wow' she heard as they walked up. The Mayor's voice is muffled, so he could be saying anything. Probably the same.

Might not be quite the entrance she'd planned.

If she'd planned it.

Shite.

"Alright, Nate," she says, folding her arms, pretending to be casual.

He looks up, and his eyebrows shoot up. "Holy shit," he says. "What are you doing here? What are... all of you doing here?"

"Reject Squad," pipes up the sniper. "Here for all your fighting, shooting, uh... what was it, Cait?"

"What are you talking about?" says Nate. "Reject what?"

"Ah, shite," she says, taking off the sunglasses. "Don't do the line if you can't get it right, Mac, come on. Besides, that was just for the Railroad."

"The Railroad?" says Nate, bewildered.

"We paid a little visit," she explains. "But you weren't there. Then a little bird in a shite wig told us where you actually were."

"A bird," he says, weakly. "I don't understand. What are you doing here?"

"We were going to tell you to fuck off," she says. "That we quit. We've walked a pretty long way, to come tell you that."

He gets to his feet. "I don't... what?"

"You left us in a shitehole, Nate," she says. "We were pretty pissed."

The Mayor says something, but it's muffled by the scarf. There's a pause, and a curse or two. "Fuck," he says, eventually. "I was trying to say I definitely didn't deserve it, but I probably did. Sorry, for what it's worth."

"Yeah," says the sniper. "Sorry for being an assh... ugh, a jerk. I guess I didn't realise how much was going on."

She looks either side of her. "Well, these guys have rolled over pretty quick, but don't think I'm going to back down so easy. I'm still pissed."

Nate's shoulders sag. "I don't know what to say."

"Mac," she says, "fix Hancock's scarf in case someone comes in. You," and she points at Nate, "are coming with me."

A rock, by the shore, looking out across the water. Odd, how things repeat themselves like this.

"He misses you," she says, settling herself down. She picks up a handful of pebbles and throws them in the water.

His head snaps around. He meets her eye, and clearly understands what she means. "You've been to the Castle?" he says.

"Yeah," she says. "We've been everywhere."

He looks worried, suddenly.

She digs in her pack, pulls out a couple of spare beers she'd been saving for the occasion. "You've got a lot of friends," she says, holding one out to him. "When we said you were gone, they all wanted to help."

He takes the beer, somewhat awkwardly.

"But none of them could," she says, "cos you wouldn't tell them anythin'. I know it's fuckin' daft for me to be sayin' it, but you have to trust someone, at some point. You can pick these arseholes, if you want, and wait for 'em to turn on you later. But there's a whole Commonwealth full of people who'd do anythin' for you, no questions asked."

He stays quiet for a moment, still looking out over the water.

"And he's still there?" he says. "At the Castle?"

"Course he fuckin' is," she says. "He'll be guardin' that place until the day he dies."

Silence.

"Or until you go back there and take him somewhere nicer," she says.

"I can't," he says, quietly.

She cracks open her beer with her teeth, and spits the cap into her hand. "Why not?"

"I've come this far with the Brotherhood," he says. "If I don't stick with them, they'll go ballistic."

"They'll fuckin' deal with it," she says. "Cos if they fuck with you, they fuck with the whole Commonwealth. You're a General. You've got an army of your own. You could have told me about that, at least."

"Would you have treated me any differently?"

"Well," she says. "Might have been a bit more polite, you know."

He catches her eye, and she laughs. "Yeah, alright. Maybe not. But there's a bigger picture, right? Shame it took wearing holes in me boots to find it what it was, but that can't be helped now, right?"

He drinks some of the beer, and scratches part of the label off before he speaks again. "Telling the story a couple of times is bad enough," he says. "Having to go over it again, and again, and again, with every new person I meet? Fucking sucks. Sometimes it's easier just to crash in, be an asshole, then move on just as fast. If that pisses people off, then, whatever."

"Tell me about it," she says.

He catches her eye again. Maybe one day she'll tell him.

Not now, though.

"Come back with us," she says. "Just for a bit. If nothin' else, it'll cheer your boyfriend up. He practically cried on me, you know."

"You got that close?" he says.

"I felt sorry for him, okay," she says. "Both of us dumped in shiteholes with nothing to go on. I was just lucky I found me squad."

" _Your_ squad?" he asks. "Will they say that too?"

"They'd fuckin' better," she says, "or they're out on their ears."

He reaches out and squeezes her shoulder. "Maybe you're right. I should go back. Thanks, Cait. Sorry I was such an asshole."

"Yeah, well," she says. "Don't change. It's kind of endearin'."

"It was under intense provocation," he says. "Don't think I've forgotten."

Her heart leaps into her throat, but he's smiling, so she just punches him in the arm and grins right back.

Back in the lounge, the Mayor and the sniper are sitting against a wall, basking in the sun and passing a bottle of whiskey between them. From somewhere, the sniper has found another set of the mirrored shades, and is grinning at her and Nate as they return.

"C'mon, boys," she says. "We're leavin'."

The Brotherhood wankers at the gate salute as Nate approaches. The scribe frowns a little, looks like she might be about to ask about paperwork again.

"Uh, just escorting these civilians back to a safe location," says Nate. "Don't wait up."

Part way down the road, he stops. Pulls out his own sunglasses from his pocket and slaps them on his face. "That's more like it," he says. " _Now_ we look awesome."

"Hey," says the Mayor, pulling apart the scarf enough to be heard. "Mine don't match. I'm hurt."

"Close enough," says Nate, with a grin.

"Fellas," says Cait. "We don't need a fuckin' uniform to know we're the Commonwealth's finest. Now come on. Let's go and get pissed."

**Author's Note:**

> To paraphrase Homer Simpson, I can't believe I wrote the whole thing.
> 
> Readers, especially those who have stuck with it from the beginning, I hope you enjoyed the ride.
> 
> P.S. Ten points to the first person who correctly identifies the film that spawned this horrorshow. Maybe a follow-up film-related shitpostfic, though I do have two other projects on the cards so it has to be a one-shot, okay? Okay.


End file.
